


Let Me Steal You

by rideswraptors



Series: Let Me Steal You [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Cousin Incest, Dany is much smarter than everyone else, F/M, Jon Snow knows something, Jon Targaryen - Freeform, Multi, Multi-chap, OTP: See you all in hell, One thing really, R plus L equals J, follows the books, gets mature later, slower burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-25 11:24:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 88,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7530871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rideswraptors/pseuds/rideswraptors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He may be a dragon by blood,” Sansa said, looking down to meet Ghost’s adoring red gaze, “but he was raised among wolves. To me, he will always be a Stark.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because it's GRRM, obviously I own nothing and make no money from this (forgive us for trying to have some fun, Ser Overlord).

“I wish she didn’t have to come.”

 

“Lady Stark has her duties and obligations just as anyone else.”

 

“Don’t call her that!” Arya snapped.

 

“It’s her proper title,” Jon rebuffed gently.

 

“She’s your _sister_. You don't have to—”

 

“Cousin,” he corrected. “I'm your cousin. And Lady Stark is going to be crowned Queen in the North. And then I will call her _your grace_ , as I do my lady aunt.”

 

Arya grumbled under her breath for a moment. She tried to calm her temper, deeply inhaling the noxious scent of salt water and Flea Bottom which wafted up through the gates of the Red Keep. She and Jon had been in the capital going on seven moon’s turns after returning Sansa to Winterfell. The War of the Five Kings was long since over, the White Walkers turned back to ash, and Daenerys Targaryen sat on the Iron Throne. Yes, things were very much different in Westeros. She counted to five, and then kept pressing. Jon could be such a _baby_ sometimes.

 

“Have you even spoken to her since the Vale?”

 

“We’ve not been in the same city since…”

 

Arya scowled, “Have you written her, then?”

 

Jon furrowed his brow, his thick lips pouting out, reminding his former-but-ever-still little sister of his sulky childhood self. Arya watched him balefully, not at all pleased with the strangeness between him and the Lady of Winterfell. Were she anyone else, she might have thought Queen Daenerys’ Northern Advisor was bitterly jealous of her sister, jealous that she had been given Winterfell after the fall of King’s Landing. But she wasn’t anyone else, she was Arya Stark, and very few people knew Jon Snow-Targaryen as well as she. He was still as lean and brooding as ever, with her father’s Northern looks and dark gray eyes that sometimes she swore flashed violet in the sunlight.

 

Normally, he would be in Targaryen black and red, though today was a little different. The opulent direwolf on his chest winked at her. The midnight blue of the tunic was nicely set off by the pitch black of his shirt, and his Targaryen red cape hung off his shoulder uselessly, as most of the noblemen wore them. She knew from snooping that his heavy northern cloak still sat out in his solar, well within reach, as if he’d have need of it in the warm climes of the south. Habits are hard to break. Absently, Arya thought that Davos had gone out of his way to make sure there was a decent valet to dress Jon every morning. Given the opportunity, he would probably still wear the grave, simplistic uniform of the Watch and forgo a tunic in favor of a shirt and boiled leather doublet. He hadn’t changed nearly as much as he thought. Her own attire wasn’t so different from before her arrival in King’s Landing either, she supposed. She wore the embroidered shirt and the long doublet of the City Watch; Needle belted at her waist, hair tied back, and boots polished to a shine. She never wore the mail or the helmet, it only slowed her down. Not that the queen ever bothered correcting her. Or Grey Worm for that matter. Grey Worm thought the chain mail to be a waste of good spear material. Arya was inclined to agree. Kill your enemy before you have to protect yourself, they’d decided.

 

“I never know what to say.”

 

“So you’ve tried more than once.”

 

“Dozens of times.”

 

“So you admit that you miss her?”

 

Jon sighed. “I’ve missed all of you for such a long time that I don't know how not to anymore.”

 

Arya sniffed, “Don’t try to distract me with your soppy nonsense.” Next to her, Jon snorted and put an arm around her shoulders to drop a kiss to the top of her head. Her first instinct was to cringe, to flinch away, but she swallowed that impulse down. Her second impulse was to swat him away. She wanted to protest that she wasn’t a child, that he didn’t need to baby her, but in true, she couldn’t find it in herself complain.

 

“Has she written you?”

 

“Twice. But not in several weeks.”

 

“Still cross with you then.”

 

“Probably.”

 

Jon rode South with Stannis Baratheon after regaining Winterfell from the Boltons. Melisandre had been killed during the siege, and so Jon hadn’t minded leaving Winterfell with Stannis’ proxy. They’d gone south into the Reach before marching on King’s Landing, earning them an army twice the size of anything the Lannisters could muster up. Not when Cersei Lannister had brought the Sept and the followers of the Faith to ruins with the Wildfire. Those who didn’t quickly take a knee were swept aside. But while Stannis came from the North, Daenerys came from the South with the Martells and the Tyrells, her nephew Aegon, her Dothraki horde, and three dragons at her side. Their armies met at King’s Landing, where Stannis and Cersei Lannister were captured and executed. Dany left no Lannisters or Baratheons alive in King’s Landing.

 

At this point, Jon had sworn fealty to the conquering queen, confessing that he cared very little who sat on the Iron Throne. His concerns lay North of the Wall, where the White Walkers were steadily making their way South. Surprisingly, Tyrion Lannister, already named Hand of the Queen, was the one who vouched for him, reminding the new queen that Jon had been Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. When she demanded to know why he’d abandoned his post, he told her his tale in full. Even to the point of admitting that his foremost priority was preserving Winterfell for his half-sister, whom Brienne had told him was being held in the Vale, protected by Jaime Lannister who had sworn an oath to her lady mother. It was only just winter by that point, and there was certainly no chance of marching on the Vale in such conditions. Though, he supposed he might have taken one of the dragons. However, installing Sansa in Winterfell would have been a useless exercise if the White Walkers succeeded in crossing the Wall.

 

They went North, and with Jon’s experience and Sam’s knowledge of lore, they destroyed the undead army. Everything was going according to plan, just as they’d hoped. Between Brienne’s Oathkeeper, his own Longclaw, the Tarly’s Heartsbane, and the newly returned Widow’s Wail, their commanders were armed with Valyrian steel. Daenerys was able to commission and forge weapons of dragonglass. She had Aegon take Viserion and transport them from where they were being crafted in Dorne to the Wall. It terrified Jon beyond reason that it only took the dragon two days to cross the continent. Regardless, it was beneficial. They prepared and armed their troops for a sennight. The battle lasted only three days. They were able to keep the men on the wall, shooting arrows of dragonglass while Dany’s three dragons laid waste to the bulk of the undead army. They sent a small battalion of men armed with Valyerian steel and dragonglass spears, Jon among them. He lent Longclaw to Tormund, as he’d found an altogether different kind of weapon. The Night’s King was burnt to ash by Drogon.

 

It was on the Wall that a Wildling witch had approached Dany to tell her of a vision she’d had of her future heir. Jon’s son. Jon denied knowing anything about it, saying it was foolish, he was the bastard son of Lord Stark and a common woman. But then a former knight of Stannis, who had remained behind with the Wildlings, told her of the Lady Melisandre, of her visions and prophecy. He confessed that he’d despised the Red Woman, but that she’d raised Jon Snow from the dead and proclaimed him to be Azor Ahai, the prince who was promised. The words rang true for Daenerys, who had been raised hearing her brother’s beliefs, who had seen her brother in the House of the Undying. _A song of ice and fire_ , she had whispered staring at Jon, looking for the signs. A man who’d dwelt among the ice, who brought dragons North of the Wall, who brought _fire_.

 

Then Howell Reed, having left the Neck for the first time in decades to fight along the alleged last son of Stark, confessed to his new queen the tale of the tourney at Harrenhall, where Rhaegar crowned Lyanna Stark the Queen of Love and Beauty, abducting her and starting the war only a year later. He told her the story of Lyanna’s death at the Tower of Joy. He told her that she’d died from childbirth and that Ned Stark claimed the babe died with her. When questioned, Jon was forced to admit that Lord Stark had never revealed to him who his mother truly was, and that while he fiercely defended Jon as his own son, betraying his wife was simply not in his nature. It had never made any sense to those who knew him best.

 

With this knowledge, and Aegon, Jon’s half-brother from Essos, they made three. A three-headed dragon. On the Wall, Dany declared Jon her nephew and heir, having already wedded Aegon in Dorne to establish her claim in King’s Landing. However, Jon refused the title of prince, refused to accept the moniker of the legend. As even Sam said, the myth never specified a male. Daenerys fit the legend just as well as Jon. Jon insisted that putting stock in old tales was foolish, but the look in his alleged aunt’s eyes was unnerving. She saw something, or knew something, he simply could not. Regardless, the matter was dropped.

 

On their march South, just before the Neck, they received a raven from Tyrion. Harrold Hardyng had sent him Jaime Lannister’s golden hand. Brienne confessed that she didn’t know Sansa’s condition in the Vale because when they discovered she was being held by Petyr Baelish, Jaime advised her to ride for King’s Landing. Baelish knew all about Brienne’s oath to Catelyn Stark, but to him, Jaime was just another disgraced knight escaping his crazed sister in the capital. Hardyng wrote to Tyrion claiming that Jaime had tried to abduct his wife and was executed on the spot. There was no word as to his wife’s fate. Regardless, Jaime Lannister’s death meant that Sansa was alone, and so an army, led by Jon and Brienne, rode for the Eyrie to reclaim Winterfell’s lost daughter, who Daenerys intended to name Queen in the North.

 

They met Arya in the Twins. She’d been searching for Sansa since her return from Braavos some months before and discovered that she was being held at Ironoaks with the Waynwoods who were pledged to Petyr Baelish, who now held the Eyrie and named Harrold Hardyng his heir. Arya never told Jon how she’d discovered any of this, and Jon never wanted to ask. Mostly because rumors of the Freys’ untimely ends had spread across the Riverlands and Jon Snow knew one thing: he knew _better_.

 

When they found Sansa, she had been beaten and starved, locked in her room which was guarded by two men. Ghost killed one, Jon killed the other. The household called her Alayne and her hair was dark brown, but not even Jon, who hadn’t seen her since she was eleven, needed assistance recognizing her. Sansa’s joy at seeing both him and Arya together had been palpable. And if Brienne needed any more proof of her identity, she had only to look at the many direwolves stitched into gowns and handkerchiefs and spare scraps of cloth. Her elation at seeing her siblings alive had been tempered somewhat by Jon’s attire.

 

“ _What_ are you wearing?” she’d demanded of Jon.

 

“Lord Targaryen,” one of the men had called in, interrupting their brief reunion. “Guards coming.”

 

“Targaryen?” she’d demanded.

 

“Sansa, I can—”

 

“He’s _Aunt Lyanna’s_ son,” Arya informed her, “with Prince Rhaegar.” She’d looked like she’d been struck.

 

“So you bear their name and wear _their_ colors now?” Her tone was completely repulsed, but there had been no time to explain. There was too much to do, and to accomplish their ends, they needed subterfuge and the advantage of surprise.

 

In Daenerys’ name, he took Harrold Hardyng prisoner, leaving Brienne, Arya, Sansa, and a portion of his army to guard him at Ironoaks. Jon and his men easily infiltrated the Eyrie under the guise of treating. Jon supposed Baelish truly believed him to be Ned Stark’s son, and foolish enough to fall for his ploys. Jon formally requested that Lord Baelish, now truly lord due to the untimely death of the sickly Lord Robert Arryn, call the Lords of the Vale for a summit, so that Jon could relay the Dragon Queen’s treatise to all.

 

Under the guise of obeying the summons, Brienne escorted Hardyng and the Stark girls to the Eyrie, with Sansa still in disguise. Only when all the lords had arrived did Jon transform the summit into a trial. He brought forth Sansa, her hair restored to Tully-red, Arya, and a knight who had escorted Jeyne Pool to the Boltons to marry Ramsay Snow as a false Arya. With Arya’s identity confirmed by the knight and Brienne, Arya confirmed Sansa’s identity. And then it was Sansa’s turn to testify.

 

Her speech was long and steady, and she told them the tale of how she left King’s Landing, what had transpired in the Vale, and everything Baelish had confessed to her. Jon lost count of the charges after the first quarter hour. Baelish did his best to disparage the Stark girls, to undermine Brienne’s knowledge, and even tried to make Jon look the usurper. But Jon was now heir to the Seven Kingdoms, and the tide had quickly turned against Littlefinger. He and Harrold Hardyng, for the murders of Ser Jaime Lannister, Lady Lysa Arryn, Lord Robert Arryn, and for countless counts of conspiracy against the crown, were executed. Jon made good use of Longclaw that day. He named Yohn Royce, his biggest supporter, Lord of the Eyrie and Protector of the Vale. And then he stole Sansa away from them.

 

With Asha Greyjoy ruling the Iron Islands, Sansa in the North, Daenerys in the South, and her regent,  Daario, in Meereen, women ruled the Seven Kingdoms and beyond. Sansa fit well among them. But that did not mean she fully accepted the new world order, or Jon’s place in it. They argued terribly during the journey back to Winterfell. Sansa was furious that he planned to return to his aunt in King’s Landing, and Jon had a difficult time speaking to her as a grown woman instead of the dreamy little girl he’d known. Needless to say, she hadn’t responded well to his tone. In true, he couldn’t particularly say how those arguments had started, but he did know how they ended: Sansa, absolutely furious, turning on her heel and leaving his tent. Oh, she was angry with Arya, too, but for whatever reason was more vocal with Jon.

 

Before they left Winterfell for the Red Keep once more, Sansa had gifted Arya the dress she’d made in the Vale, and for Jon a deep blue silk tunic embroidered with a bright white direwolf. A direwolf, with flashing red eyes, set against gray thread. Arya’s she delivered in person, but she sent Jon’s through Brienne along with a message.

 

“She said to remind you to _remember who you are_. And that the wolf outlived the dragon.” Brienne’s smirk was enough to make him want to rend the thing to bits. When Jon brought it to Arya, trying to garner some sympathy, she had actually laughed at him.

 

“We used to do this in reverse. Me complaining about her passive aggressive taunts, you consoling me. How the mighty have fallen.”

 

He hadn’t been able to destroy it in the end. For one, it was simply too beautiful. Sansa had always been singularly talented in her embroidery. The red crystals and the shape of the wolf’s muzzle was so in Ghost’s likeness that it sent his mind reeling. And for another, everything with his former house’s sigil on it was precious. So, heedful of Sansa’s ire, Jon had purposefully selected her tunic to wear out to welcome her to King’s Landing, the red in the direwolf’s eyes only emphasized by the Targaryen cape he wore to the side. He wished to please her, maybe as an apology, maybe as a way to compensate for years of Catelyn Stark’s disapproval, he didn't know. But his aunt had merely smiled at his apparel during the small council meeting.

 

He was serving as the Northern Advisor, second fiddle to Aegon, Queen’s consort, and to Tyrion Lannister, the Royal Hand and the new Lord of Casterly Rock. Ser Jorah served as the Lord Commander of the Queensguard, Grey Worm as Master-at-Arms and of Ships, Theon Greyjoy served as Master of Coin, Nymeria Sand as her Dornish and foreign advisor. And she gave Quentyn Martell the position of Master of Games, possibly to keep him out of Dorne and out of his sister Arianne’s hair. Two Targaryens, a Lannister, a Greyjoy, two foreigners, one bastard from the South, and another from the North. Jon sometimes wondered if Daenerys was brilliant or insane.

 

Jon struggled to conform to his new position, struggled to make adjustments and accommodate. He wasn’t used to people deferring to him. Even as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, even as a Commander in Stannis’ army, they were all soldiers. He’d fought alongside those men, and that’s why they followed his orders. Until they didn’t. But servants and noblemen greeting him in their overpolite tones? Looking to him for opinions as if he had more experience than they, talking of him with deference and respect they on barely gave his father. It was…peculiar. Davos Seaworth, serving as Jon’s own guard and advisor, was possibly the only person who truly understood. He made Jon feel like less of a hog in silk. There were days the finery chafed worse than boiled leather on the Wall. Davos said he’d probably never become entirely accustomed to King’s Landing, his best option was to secure a house outside the capital. A sensible plan, actually, but in order to gain Daenerys favor, he needed her trust. Part of gaining her trust was assimilating into his new family and appeasing Aegon. Thus, Jon wore the Targaryen colors and sigil at Aegon’s insistence. But apparently, his aunt-wife found his reluctance amusing.

 

“You can put a Dothraki warrior in an iron suit, teach him to fight like a Westerosi, but you cannot hide the length of his braid. It is the same with Ser Jon. Paint the boy black and red, if you choose, the wolf still lives in his bones.” Still, her indifference on the subject was comforting. The black he was accustomed to, but the red made him think of Lannisters. He found himself longing for whites and grays.

 

So yes, Jon was nervous as they awaited Sansa’s arrival into the Keep. Podrick Payne had come ahead to announce their arrival. Jon had greeted him warmly, having gotten to know him during the various battles up and down the countryside. But the former squire’s reunion with Tyrion made Jon shake his head in wonder at the shifts in their world. He wondered if Sansa was so changed. If she would sneer at him as always, embrace him warmly, or something middling. She had needed him in the Vale, needed his aunt’s army to regain Winterfell without her keepers. But now? Now she had regained her homeland, now she had bannermen and loyalty and an army of her own. She didn’t _need_ Jon. Dany needed Jon. Dany needed to keep peace with Sansa and to learn the Northern ways. In all likelihood, Sansa would thrice damn him and warn him to stay out of the North. His anxiety had Ghost on edge, and next to him the beast whined and circled around before lifting his big head. The wolf’s gaze went in the direction of the gates as they opened to reveal Sansa, Brienne, and the members the Stark household.

 

And was it ever a welcome sight to see his uncle-father’s sigil worn so proudly by a healthy new pack of men. But even more welcome was the image of Sansa. She rode astride a big black, as she had always refused to do, wearing a deep blue velvet gown, a color that matched his tunic, bearing a red direwolf on the collar. She wore a heavy northern cloak, in spite of the warm weather, a wolf pelt of black across her shoulders, with finely stitched leather straps that resembled what her lord father used to wear. The crowning jewel was her hair; her flaming Tully auburn hair was bound in a thick braid of Northern style, tossed casually over her shoulder. She was the spitting image of her lady mother, they would say, but all Jon could see were the deep etches of her father. She looked...she looked…

 

“She’s beautiful,” Arya breathed. It stirred Jon from his roiling thoughts.

 

“Lady Stark has always been beautiful.”

 

“No...I meant….she looks so—”

 

Jon paused, nodding slightly. “She looks like a queen,” he finished for her. Arya gawped up at him and then over at her lady sister. As Sansa came closer and closer into view, she must have recognized their forms because she hurried along her mount, smiling brilliantly. Some guard shouted out to her, warning about speed. She merely called back to her lady knight, passed her reins over, and dismounted mid-trot. Her boots hit the red stone path with a heavy _thunk_ and her braid flopped against her shoulder. Arya laughed uproariously at her antics as she dashed right toward them.

 

There was a brief moment when Jon hesitated, taking an abortive step in her direction. But then Sansa’s eyes lighted on him, a fixed point. Quite unconsciously, Jon strode forward quickly and intercepted her as she leapt to hug him tightly around his neck. Jon caught her easily, arms braced around her slight form as he held her close to him, inhaling her pine and lemon scent, the one that smelled like _home_.

 

He felt her nuzzle into his shoulder, burrowing. He was so relieved and happy and amused at her unladylike behavior that tears pricked his eyes even as his lips pulled into a wide smile. They said nothing, not even hellos. Soon her party was bearing down on them, so he set her to her feet and released her. He saw the way her icy blue eyes drifted over his chest, over the wolf, and his heart lurched when she grinned coyly up at him. But it was gone in a moment when she turned to Ghost to kiss his snout and then to Arya with noisy enthusiasm, greeting her sister with news of home and Rickon’s health. Jon watched the pair of them go with Ghost on their heels, thick as thieves, and flushed when Sansa tossed her head to look briefly at him once more before dropping a hand to Ghost’s head. It took him a long moment to realize that Ghost hadn’t even looked to him for permission before plastering himself to Sansa’s side. Which was what he was going to have the wolf do anyway. Jon was pulled from his staring by Lady Brienne’s sudden presence. She led both mounts by the reins, a smirk on her lips.

 

“For the past fortnight, she’s talked of seeing you and little else,” she informed him blandly.

 

“Oh?” he bandied back. “If you were anyone but yourself Lady Brienne, I would highly doubt your words.” A slight and a compliment. Brienne was never kind for the sake of kindness; she was blunt and honest to a fault. She had a rigid sense of duty, honor, and morality. Had she been born a man, the Sansa-of-old most certainly would have fallen in love with her.

 

“I insisted that you were the same as ever, dour and brooding…”

 

“Such a sweet woman you are—”

 

“But she laughed at me and said that was just your face.” Jon didn't respond for a long moment, wondering where any fondness could have sprung from in their silent time apart. “I never thought I would hear her truly laugh,” the broad woman confessed. “You make her laugh, Lord Snow.”

 

He kept his gaze riveted on the sisters’ backs.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“For what?”

 

“For calling me what I am. A _Snow_.”

 

He was _Ser Jon_ or _Lord Targaryen_ now at Daenerys’ insistence. In the back of his mind, he knew it was a symbolic gesture, a way to claim him for hers and remind the people that he was her rightful heir. But the shape of the words rang false in his ears. So many years ago, Tyrion Lannister had told him to embrace what he was, a bastard, and not even the Southron sun had warmed him to the idea of a new name. Brienne nodded, but didn’t comment for a long moment.

 

“That is a beautiful tunic, Lord Snow,” she said meaningfully. “It suits you. Yes, I think it suits you very well.”

 

“It is among my most prized possessions.”

 

“As it should be.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

A welcome feast was held in Sansa’s honor that night before her coronation scheduled for the next afternoon. People came in droves, having been invited in order to show off the Dragon Queen’s shiny new bauble. It would have been an insult to decline. The Red Keep was full to capacity.

 

And Daenerys’ hall was stunningly bright, roaring with laughter and music. She sat at the head table on a dais, in her gauzy, strappy white gown which cut out at her waist, shoulders, and belly. The sleeve plates which jutted out over her shoulders looked like black dragon scales, as did the billowy cape which was fastened onto those plates and trailed down her back.  She wore dragon claws about her neck and an obsidian circlet on her head. Aegon, Asha Greyjoy, Theon Greyjoy, and Tyrion sat to her right, with Sansa, Jon, and Arya to her left. Sansa had bullied Arya in to the gown she’d made her, the wolves matching Sansa’s perfectly.

 

And Sansa herself was exquisite. Her deep purple gown was a mixture of Northern and Southron styles; the neckline curving along her collarbone, the folds clasped along her rib cage. The clasps were burnished gold wolves, of course. Her sleeves were long and billowing in the Southron style, but the cut was of the demure northern. Brocaded vines of gold made their way up her bodice, to the brocaded winter roses which lay along her shoulders. On the back of the bodice was the head of a wolf, embroidered in purple thread just slightly darker than her gown. It reminded Jon remarkably of Lady with its crystalline gold eyes. And of course her hair remained ever the same, the two slips of braids tied at the crown of her head, and her wavy tresses draped over her shoulders. Enmeshed in her braids was a twinkling circlet, dull gold with bright blue sapphires, two wolves leaping toward the crown of her head. 

 

Grey Worm and Missandei, in a similar complementary gown to her lady’s, sat on the other side of Tyrion, giggling at his tipsy antics. Ser Jorah and Lady Brienne sat on the other side of Arya, deep in conversation with the girl. Queen Arianne Martell was conspicuously absent, but had sent several representatives of her house in her stead. Jon found himself once more in his Targaryen colors, dragon shapes instead of wolves, but he’d pinned the Stark sigil on his inner shirt over his heart, and found his hand drifting up to it on more than one occasion. The Great Hall was bright and loud, and far too many people drank and talked over one another. Unfortunately, Jon still wasn’t entirely accustomed to the intensity of affairs in King’s Landing, though Sansa appeared at ease. His aunt teased him a little.

 

“If this were a Dothraki party, half a dozen men would already be dead and several couples would be going at it like beasts on the floor. I remember at _my_ first wedding…” Jon choked on his wine as his aunt graphically described to innocent little Lady Sansa precisely what she’d seen. Queen Asha was intensely amused, leering at Daenerys as she spoke. Much to Jon’s shock, Sansa didn’t cry out or look revolted in the least. She merely and sedately wrinkled her nose.

 

“That sounds like something Joffrey Baratheon would have greatly enjoyed.”

 

The queen looked completely bewildered and Jon was horrified, but apparently Tyrion had overheard and laughed so loudly that he drew the attention of several tables. So great was his unfettered merriment that he had to wipe tears from his eyes.

 

“Oh Lady Stark! King’s Landing has greatly missed that sharp tongue of yours!” he shouted above the din. Several people echoed the sentiment, shouting _hear, hear_ and toasting her name. Tyrion, with the royal party grinning up at him, got to his feet on his chair, and lifted his wine glass high.

 

“A toast!” he bellowed, “To our conquering Dragon Queen in the South!” There were loud cheers and well wishes from those below, “To her vicious Warrior Queen of the Iron Islands!” Another piercing cry went up. “And to her fine choice of Warden, the fearsome Red Wolf! Our Queen in the North!” The cheers for Sansa were equally loud and exuberant, especially as most of the guests were heavily intoxicated. With an absurd battle cry, Tyrion drained his goblet, tossed it behind him and flopped into his seat again. A servant was quickly at his side with a replacement. Jon watched the three young women, regal and resplendent, clink glasses and drink in each other’s honor. Though, they did exchange small smiles and rolling eyes. Evidently, they were all of similar minds when it came to Tyrion Lannister.

 

Soon after the dancing began, and though Aegon and Dany were quick to participate, along with many others on the dais, Jon and Arya remained behind, gazes locked on Sansa. Jon felt Arya’s hand absently cover his own, but he couldn’t look away from Sansa bowing to her former husband of a dance partner before they began the quick steps of the Northern Reel. Tyrion was surprisingly good. But Sansa glowed from the dance floor, a brilliant smile on her face as her body chased her hands and her loose curls floated around her shoulders. The wolf on her back winked and flashed in the candlelight. Tyrion and Theon swapped partners, spinning them in wide circles as they clapped and stomped their feet, then joined hands to skip in a circle around the room.

 

“Do you remember when we used to watch her dance with the bannermen’s sons? We would laugh at the boys who stepped on her feet because she made that pinched doggy face?” Jon’s response was somewhere between and laugh and a sob.

 

“ _I_ was one of those boys,” he deadpanned. That was a much simpler time. When Robb and Theon were supposed to make nice with the young ladies and Bran was too young to dance, so Sansa would drag him to the floor. When she would snap impatiently when he moved wrong, and dramatically hiss when he stepped on her toes. But she always asked him up until...well it was around the time he’d decided to take the black that she stopped asking. All of it felt so long ago.

 

“I know,” Arya whispered, “but look at her now. Dancing cheerfully with a dwarf, a man she was forced to marry. A man she should despise.”

 

“She told her grace that Lord Tyrion was nothing but kind to her. If a drunk…”

 

“He’s still a Lannister. And not her idea of a suitable dancing partner.”

 

Jon wasn’t sure how to respond to any of that. Sansa’s experiences with the Lannisters were mixed and confusing. The brothers had been nothing but kind and comforting to her. The father, the sister, and her son had brutalized and terrorized her up until Joffrey’s death. In this very hall. She must have given up on family generalizations long ago.

 

“She seems to be enjoying herself, is that not suitable enough?”

 

She eyed him wearily, “You’re defending the girl who used to sneer at you and remind everyone that you were only a _half-_ brother.”

 

“I'm not defending anyone. I am just saying that the little girl we knew as children is long since dead.” He returned his gaze to Sansa, to her bright eyes and flushed cheeks. “The one before us is someone else altogether.”

 

“Yes,” Arya agreed with a sharp nod. “We’ve all changed. Some more than others.”

 

“You ought to go dance, Arya,” he responded tiredly, but unable to resist the jape. “Plenty of young men will be wanting your attention.”

 

Arya scowled. “I’ll go. But only to keep your lady aunt off my back.” She slugged him in the shoulder and darted from the dais to intercept a twirling Sansa, who laughed as Arya tried to lead. They were cheered on by the couples around them. But Jon squinted, eyes searching for—

 

“She is quite the woman your sister. Forgive me, _cousin_ ,” Tyrion Lannister said from beside him, already pouring another glass of wine. Jon scowled as it was passed to him and the Royal Hand continued to pour his own glass. “I'm forever forgetting that she’s _not_ , in fact, your sister.”

 

“And yet, I am not allowed to forget it.”

 

“Yes, I suppose her grace would want you to remember yourself. Remember who you are.”

 

There it was again. Yet another person telling him to remember. And who was he exactly? A Snow? A Stark? A Targaryen? Was he a bastard? A Night’s Watchman? A crow? A traitor? A commander? A knight? An advisor to the Queen? A prince? Was he brother or cousin? Nephew or enemy? Jon Snow was at once all and none of these things. And he would be the last to forget it.

 

“Everyone seems to disagree as to who I am. I wonder at the merit of sorting it all out.”

 

“I told you once to embrace what you are because the world would never let you forget.”

 

“It was good advice.”

 

“It was terrible advice. As it turned out, you weren’t a mere lord’s bastard, but a prince’s bastard and one of his few remaining heirs besides. Foolish to let people tell you what you are. Never thought I’d legitimately be Hand again and yet? Here we are.”

 

“Make your point _Lord Hand_.”

 

“My point, _Ser Jon,_ is that the queen is considering returning Lady Stark to me as my wife and making _you_ the Royal Hand.”

 

“I don't—You despise the North. You can’t stand the cold.”

 

“Perhaps, but consider what would warm my bed.”

 

“Careful _imp_ , she is still my kin.”

 

“But for how long will she be your responsibility?” The Hand raised his brows meaningfully and excused himself to uproariously mock Grey Worm’s poor dancing skills. The two loudly and playfully bickered as Tyrion circled him and Missandei in order to instruct them. Jon shook his head in an attempt to dismiss the images plaguing his mind, and was unable to resist Sansa’s request to join her on the dance floor.

 

She was as graceful as ever. He was as clumsy as ever. So they moved hastily out of the way of others in order to dance at a quieter pace.

 

“Rickon misses you,” she said softly after half a song of silence. Jon didn't look up from their feet, alarmed by their disparity in size.

 

“Does he?” Her responding laugh was bright and tinkling.

 

“Of course, he does! He only asks me every day when you’re coming home. Arya’s returned twice, but he misses his—he misses you.” Jon tried not to flinch at her self-correction.

 

“I have been needed here. I do as the Queen commands.”

 

He missed her eyes narrowing. “Tomorrow I will be crowned Queen in the North. Will you do as I command then?”

 

“Lady Stark—”

 

“Was my mother. And you were my brother once.”

 

“ _Half-_ brother. Once.”

 

“And it seems that like my true-born brothers, you will forever keep me waiting, wondering if you will ever come home.” Jon’s attention was finally ripped from their feet. The coldness in her voice was not anything that reminded him of pleasanter times. It was the tone she took with their septa, with their servants, with her siblings when the occasion warranted. Not _everything_ had changed.

 

“ _Sansa_ —”

 

“You are her Advisor for the North and her nephew besides. She would grant you anything you wished.” Jon furrowed his brow, lips pinching tightly together to keep his knee jerk response from lashing at her.

 

“You know as well as I,” he gritted through his teeth, “That we both have responsibilities which greatly outweigh our personal needs.” He inhaled sharply through his nose, thinking about the exact specifications of the responsibilities of the young northern queen. “Her grace will do as she sees _fit._ ”

 

Sansa stopped them abruptly, her gaze squarely on his face where he actively sought to avoid hers.

 

“Tyrion upset you, didn’t he?” He shook his head slightly. “He said something to you that upset you. I saw you talking, so don't bother lying. He always does this when he drinks, provokes people in the worst possible moment. He’s dreadful that way. Tell me what he said.”

 

Jon rolled his eyes, willing himself to stop picturing Sansa in the role of beleaguered wife to Tyrion Lannister.

 

“The Lord Hand—”

 

“ _Tyrion,_ Jon. Before he is the Hand, he is a Lannister and he _was_ my first husband. You cannot simply erase history with a damn title!” She was furious, but on that point he agreed. _Lord Commander_ and _Ser_ did nothing to erase his parentage. They did nothing to make him forget who raised him.

 

“How you call him and what he said matters very little,” he rebuked her lowly. Jon felt her stiffen under his light grasp. “Queen Daenerys will decide as she pleases and not even a nephew could prevent her.” She bristled and he couldn't avoid looking at her anymore. Many would say she looked like her lady mother when enraged. That the sour lines in her face bespoke her Tully heritage. But as always, Jon didn’t see the late Lady of Winterfell, he saw her husband when incensed. He saw her firstborn son in a temper. He saw the rigid little girl who liked pretty things and pretty songs and tied ribbons around her direwolf’s collar.

 

“He told you the Queen asked me if I wanted to renew my marriage to him. She asked if I wanted to be his wife again.” His expression gave him away. “I told her no. I don't wish to marry him. Or anyone else.”

 

“But if she _commands_ it—”

 

Sansa nodded thoughtfully, “I suppose I wouldn’t have much choice. We can’t afford a rift with the South in such a fragile stage of repairs.”

 

“And if I can’t protect you from so small a thing as an unwanted marriage, then what good am I?”

 

They were quiet for a long moment and Jon had to look away from the intensity of her stare. They had begun to move again, slowly dancing in time to the moderately paced song. Around them people spun and laughed and clapped, carrying on without worry or care. Jon spied a Tyrell cousin eyeing them judiciously. She smiled sweetly and nodded at him when he caught her look.

 

“Jon Snow, look at me,” Sansa said imperiously. Before he could politely return the lady’s greeting, his gaze snapped to Sansa’s, locking almost against his will. Her icy blue eyes flared with emotions that roiled dangerously in her, and Jon felt the overwhelming sensation of getting caught in a sudden blizzard. Lost and confused.

 

“Father made a choice. He _decided_ to put his honor before our safety. Joffrey Baratheon and Petyr-”

 

“Don't say his name,” Jon snarled.

 

“And _Petyr Baelish_ were responsible for his death. Not you, not me, not anyone else.”

 

“I should never have taken the black. I should have been here. I should have protected you.” She pulled away from him, letting the air around him cool, letting his hands feel empty and useless as she glowered.

 

“ _No one_ could protect me. Not even you. If you had been here, you would have died. Just like all the others. And I would have lost you too. Is that what you’d prefer?” He made an abortive movement toward her, stopping short when she recoiled. “But _of course_ you would. Because Lord Stark was more your father than I ever was your sister. Of course you would rather have died with him than be here with me. He and Robb and Arya were always more important to you.”

 

“Sansa, I didn’t mean—”

 

“Yes! Of course you didn't mean it!” She laughed haughtily, but not loudly enough to garner attention. She stepped toward him again and sneered. “No one in this godforsaken place ever means _anything_ they say. Or haven’t you heard?” Her low, vicious tone was a frigid slap to his face and he winced as she pushed past him, presumably to go to Brienne. The last thing he saw of her was the golden eyes of Lady on her back mocking him as she left. Unconsciously, his hand went to the scar on his belly, the first one they’d given him. Some wounds, he thought, never really healed like you’d want. And it was unreasonably unfair.

 

Eventually, the revelry died down and the revelers turned in. Morning came and went. The coronation came and went. And all Jon could think was how proud Ned Stark would be to see his daughter finally take back the North. How proud Robb would be to see his gorgeous sister standing in his place, crowned by the Mother of Dragons in the newly built sept, the fierce Red Wolf she was raised to be. He felt Arya’s hand slip into his and knew she thought the same. Jon Snow and Arya Stark had never been prouder than anyone in the whole of their lives.

 

Sansa was still irked with him at the feast later that evening. She would only remain in the Red Keep for a day more, having refused a tournament. Her sister queen had a strong distaste for senseless violence as well, and so was happy to forgo the extra celebratory practices. All this meant was that Jon instinctively knew he would not see her before then, let alone speak to her. Sansa would entertain various houses throughout the day, reacquainting herself with the friendly enemies of her past. Arya confessed to him that Sansa was anxious, that there were people she wasn’t keen on seeing. Jon wondered aloud, as he watched her talk with Queen Asha and Theon, if he shouldn't attend just in case. Arya laughed.

 

“She’d toss you from the room!” She teased. “Sansa can handle herself, with or without you.” Arya eyed him warily, looking at him askance.  “Though from our conversation last night, I'm thinking she would prefer without.” He scowled. The pair of them stood off to the side, not at all tempted by the prospect of dancing again. Arya made her displeasure with all the pageantry known by wearing breeches to the feast. So did Asha and Brienne, of course, but Sansa was still annoyed by it. Arya told her she was lucky to have gotten her into a gown two days in a row, and that she ought to have an evening off.

 

“We argued.”

 

“Oh? What about?” Arya asked airily, in a tone Jon knew was meant to mock Lady Alla Tyrell and her whimsical act of innocence that so echoed her late cousin Margaery’s. His little sister-cousin didn’t get on with most of the ladies at court, especially not the unwed ones. She found the simpering display tiresome and avoided eligible lords like they had greyscale hands and her ears could be infected merely through their speech. Dany tolerated it for now, but her nephew knew she would grow impatient when the time came. He hoped Arya would at least attempt to be tractable, if disinterested. Jon snatched a goblet of wine from a passing tray, indulging only in the one for the evening. Dany had made her disapproval of excessive drinking widely known. Only Tyrion was brazen enough to ignore it.

 

“You know what we argued about.” There was very little chance that Sansa hadn’t told her in great detail. Though, even Arya had to admit that her sister played things much closer to the vest after so many years of subterfuge. Regardless, Jon knew Sansa trusted Arya implicitly. Arya didn't play games, she slit throats.

 

“Yes, I do. And I think your jealousy is silly.”

 

He gaped at her incredulously, “I am not jealous! Winterfell is Sansa’s birthright. I—!”

 

Arya barked a laugh, “Not of _Sansa,_ you dolt. You’re jealous of Tyrion _because of_ Sansa.”

 

He scoffed, “Don’t be stupid.”

 

“Oh please,” she snorted derisively. “You’re not the first man to look at her, and no one could blame you.”

 

It was the first time Arya had brought up what she implicitly knew. Jon was a grown man. He'd been with women, he'd been celibate and he'd learned discipline. But he was only a man. And yes, he had noticed the remarkable changes in Sansa since he had last seen her. When she was eleven. That had been seven years ago. He had missed her for nearly as long as he lived with her. She was _changed._ So yes, there had been brief thoughts. A couple of vivid dreams interspersed among the nightmares of being dead again. That didn’t mean he would act on those thoughts. Especially now that she was technically his cousin. It would be a violation of her trust, and Jon was not that sort of man.

 

“She’s my _sister_. Even I am not Targaryen enough for that.”

 

“ _Cousin_ as you are forever reminding me. And you were never very close. Mother kept her away from you as much as possible. I never listened of course—”

 

“Of course.”

 

“But you know how she used to worry and fret over her future marriage. She was convinced she’d be tainted.” Jon mentally flinched, that hurt and it wasn’t slight. He had long suspected that the coolness between him and Sansa had been due to her mother’s influence. But having it confirmed was something else altogether. Arya looked somewhat chagrined at her choice of words.

 

“My mother was an idiot where you were concerned. I never liked the way she talked to you. And for what it’s worth, Sansa isn’t a little girl preoccupied with her fantasy wedding to some dashing golden knight on a white horse. She’s been married. _Twice_. One of them was a knight. She was a lady of a respected house, and it wasn’t at all what she thought it would be. Now they sing songs about _her_.”

 

“Arya, I don't—”

 

“No. You don't. But you have to understand, your positions are quite the reverse.” He arched a brow. “She believes she’s the one who taints now.”

 

“That’s foolish.”

 

“Not to her. She may be a queen, but most of her is still the girl we knew. Still just a girl who wonders if anyone will ever really love her.” Arya’s gaze drifted to Sansa again, full of great sorrow for her lady sister, for the woman she’d become. When they found her in the Vale, her chambers had become a prison cell. When Hardyng didn’t come to visit her, that loathsome swine Baelish did. Before his death, the swine confessed all. He had planned on revealing Sansa’s true identity when the time was right, but he had planned for Stannis Baratheon, not Daenerys Targaryen, not for a vengeful Jon Snow. He would have implicated Tyrion as the true mastermind behind Joffrey’s death with Hardyng as his co-conspirator with Sansa and Winterfell as payment for his aid. Stannis would have executed both Tyrion and Hardyng, leaving Baelish free to marry Sansa and rule the North. And, Jon suspected, the Iron Throne in the long run.  In true, a despicable plan. And it was hard telling if Sansa would have continued to go along with it.

 

“We love her,” Jon said quietly, nearly choking on _we_. “Perhaps that will be enough.” Arya turned her big gray eyes up at him, peering far past the veneer of his skin.

 

“Perhaps.”

 

 

As promised, Sansa didn't stay longer than her scheduled three days. Everyone thought her quite mad, going back on the road so soon. Arya confessed she was surprised Sansa agreed to come at all, between Winterfell's vulnerable state and the horrible memories King's Landing was a veritable hellscape for her. Jon, however, wasn't surprised in the least. Sansa would always do what was best, and pleasing Daenerys was best for the North. Yes, the North was a sovereign state, an independent kingdom from the South, but they would long depend upon Daenerys' good will and favors from the Reach. The North hobbled along in its recovery and Sansa Stark would carry it herself if she had to. But that didn't mean she would linger in the capital. Jon could tell his aunt was trying not to be offended, but Sansa was quick to reassure her.

 

“Staying longer with you would be a great privilege your grace, but I cannot stay away from Winterfell for so long during repairs. My bannermen need my resources. And my little brother is not well…”

 

The Dragon Queen was very gracious with her humble reasoning, and looked to be quite pleased with her fellow queen. Sansa was an excellent choice, she understood the North. She understood what it needed. And right now, it needed her.

 

Sansa was very stiff in her farewell to Jon, though she talked quietly at length with Arya before mounting her horse. His aunt took notice of this and he shifted his weight uncomfortably under her scrutiny. The last thing he needed was her thinking that he was complicating her relations with the North. They stood together, watching her go, even after Arya begged off to attend to her own business. She said she had a cat to visit. Training, evidently. No, Jon remained until the gates closed behind Sansa’s last rider. And Daenerys stood beside him.

 

“Under the right circumstances, she would make a fine match for Tyrion, don’t you agree?”

 

“Begging your pardon, your grace, but you know that I don't.”

 

“And I would know why,” she said firmly. The lilt in her voice was all too familiar, as it echoed pleasingly through the throne room when she held court. Daenerys Stormborn appeared sweet and delicate, even when she spoke. It was when the clouds rolled across her eyes, when thunder etched in her features that all the sweetness evaporated to remind you that it had never been there.

 

“I would think the answer simple. She was forced to marry Lord Tyrion against her will. I am grateful that he proved himself a gentleman, and certainly a better man than most, but the fact remains that his presence would only cause her grace undue pain.”

 

Dany only hummed and turned to take Aegon’s arm to return indoors. She meant to visit the dragons. According to the caretakers, Drogon was sorely in need of a good flight. Many wondered if this was wise, her mounting Drogon or the others when restless as they could fly great distances. She once told Jon that she sometimes flew all the way to Meereen, just to check in on the state of things. One of the Dothraki handmaidens said the queen had a lover there, that she'd left him behind to take the Iron Throne. So the Queen brushed all the fretting aside, saying that her Council was more than capable of keeping a watch of things should she be absent. They were forced to bow to her more knowledgeable and superior judgement. As she went, Dany dismissed Jon for the day with a wry smirk and he could only wonder what her great big brain was up to.


	3. Chapter 3

The question of Sansa Stark’s marrying did not come up again for several months. She was mentioned in passing, but since the North was operating independently, there was little need to talk of her. In the end it was Aegon who brought her up in small council. In these meetings, it was only the Queen, Aegon, Tyrion, Jorah, Missandei, Grey Worm, and Jon. The rest of the council came once every moon’s turn. Jon, however, was barely paying attention, mentally reviewing what he needed for training sessions with the Queensguard and a much needed conversation with Davos.

 

“...so I think the Greyjoys would settle if they could be more assured of the North. We ought to consider wedding Queen Sansa to a Southroner.”

 

“I quite agree,” Tyrion said quietly, shooting a glance at a stunned Jon. Unfortunately his gaze drew the attention of the others who waited for him to speak.

 

“You know I disagree. Her grace has expressed serious disinterest in re-marrying.”

 

“Interest has very little to do with it,” his aunt told him matter-of-factly. “I married a Dothraki warlord to secure an army. I married a Master in Meereen to secure my rule there.”

 

“To be fair, your grace, both of those marriages ended disastrously.”

 

She smiled thinly, “Perhaps. But Sansa’s first marriage did not. Perhaps it is time to renew it.”

 

“I would more than happily oblige,” Tyrion answered with no small amount of cheek. Jon frowned and felt his gut clench against the thought.

 

“She would never agree to it. And I would never allow it.” Tension increased. “I am her oldest living relative, my duty is to her. If you force my hand, I will sever ties.”

 

“Careful nephew.”

 

“Begging your pardon your grace, but I’ve battled White Walkers, wights, and at one point, even your dragons. This _is_ me being careful.” Across the table Missandei laughed softly, though Grey Worm did not seem amused. He didn't take kindly to threats of any kind against his mistress. But instead of flaring up, his aunt smiled wryly.

 

“If my lord Hand is so unsuitable, then might I propose an alternative?”

 

“Your grace?” She waved off Missandei’s concerns. Her gaze was locked on Jon. And her nephew knew that look. He didn’t like it overmuch. It was her placid expression of disdain, the one which suggested you were in the midst of a cyvasse match you hadn’t agreed to. The expression which said you’d already lost and you just hadn’t realized it yet. It was the expression which precipitated her lengthy explanation as to just how _badly_ you had lost. He immediately fought back his snark and cheek and whatever else might have come up in Sansa’s defense.

 

“You might propose it, but I don't speak on Queen Sansa’s behalf.”

 

“But you do speak on your own.”

 

“I don't understand.”

 

“I need Sansa Stark to marry well and produce viable heirs. We cannot suffer another rebellion in the North. I need her bannermen to know her allegiance is to me.” He nodded, understanding the idea but not her intentions. “Lord Tyrion would be the easy choice. They were wed before she was snatched away, and his Lannister name would remind the North where their loyalties ought to lie. It would be a small reward for his service to me and his brother’s to Queen Sansa."

 

“But?”

 

“ _But,_ perhaps, the easy choice is not the best choice. Tyrion does not know the North. He does not understand it. Not as _you_ do.”

 

Jon froze. “Your grace?”

 

“You will go home to Winterfell, you will marry Sansa Stark, you will produce Stark heirs to rule when you’re gone, and you will protect my interests among your people.”

 

Jon gaped at her, mouth opening and closing as he looked to the other council members for help. They averted their gazes. And here, for a moment, he’d thought he had one last move to play.

 

“I am her brother!” he blurted out thoughtlessly, despite his previous insistence otherwise.

 

“You were _raised_ her brother. And a half one at that. Unless I am mistaken?”

 

“No, but—”

 

“Now you know you are her cousin. And cousins, not just Targaryens and Lannisters either, marry and reproduce all the time.  Even in the North.”

 

“My lady you don't—”

 

“Understand? Of course I do. Sansa is hardly the first woman to marry within the family for political reasons.”

 

“You would force her? After everything?”

 

Her expression darkened, “Careful, Jon Targaryen,” His brain protested, _Snow!_  “Your mouth might run away from you.” He took a steadying breath, calming himself and feeling sheepish like he had as a boy in the Night’s Watch. “I’ll not force her grace to do anything. But I will write to her and suggest it, give her my approval and blessing.” She looked to Tyrion, who nodded. Satisfied, she returned her gaze to Jon. “I will leave the convincing to you. Write to her immediately requesting a visit. You have leave to take as much time as it requires.”

 

“And if I refuse?”

 

“Jon, I am _tired_ of receiving hints and favors from the Tyrells and the Martells regarding both you and your cousin. Frankly, I find the whole issue exhausting. If you refuse, I will offer her again to Tyrion. And if he declines, we shall _make a list_. Need I continue?”

 

He sighed, “No, your grace.”

 

“Excellent,” she smiled. “Now, about Asha...”

 

When the time came to write Sansa, however, the words were slow-coming. Other than her arrival feast, the two of them had spoken very little. And their one conversation? Look how well that had turned out. It would seem that Jon would forever fail to please the Lady Stark, no matter which generation. He would probably displease her daughter too.

 

The greeting turned out to be the easiest part. In all of his missives to her on state business, he had addressed her as Lady Stark, Queen in the North. Depending upon who you asked, this letter would too be about state business. But for Jon, it was a little more than that.

 

_Dearest Sansa,_

 

_I must begin with an apology. We parted on poor terms and it is entirely my fault. You were right. Tyrion did upset me. He enjoys doing it and I know this. Most times, I can ignore it. Unfortunately, there are some ~~slights topics~~ issues I cannot so easily let go. _

 

_I realized when I sat down to write this, that we have not talked properly about anything of import.  You may not wish to tell me all that happened to you in King’s Landing, and that is fine. But there are many stories I wish to tell you. I fought alongside a giant, did you know that? His name was Wun Wun, the last of his kind. The Free Folk have songs and stories much like ours, and I know you’d like them. ~~I want~~   ~~I hope~~ There are many things I wish to say when I see you again. And I would like to see you soon. Would you allow me to visit? Her grace has given me indefinite leave to tour the North. ~~She has~~ There are matters of state which I need to discuss with you, and I would much prefer to do them in person. It is a ~~difficult~~ complicated issue. _

 

_Please respond quickly with your decision, I leave for Riverrun in a fortnight._

 

_All my love,_

_Jon_

 

He honestly didn't know what to expect for an answer. Dany did want him to visit Winterfell under the guise of a diplomatic tour, and Jon had no qualms about this. Northmen preferred you to talk business with them in their own halls, drinking their own ale while their women awaited their turning in the solars. That was how you did business in the North. Jon had every right to stay at Winterfell, as a royal ambassador, but this was no political power play. Jon remembered very well when the Baratheons had come to visit Lord Stark. He remembered the edict, the late notice. He remembered King Robert did it because it was too personal a matter to discuss by raven. One of the serving girls also confided to Theon that the king had visited Jon’s mother, the Lady Lyanna, in the crypt several times. She even said he almost looked happy standing in the crypt. Happier than he ever was in King’s Landing, at any rate. Long ago, Jon had come to realize that Winterfell was more of a symbol for him, a symbol of home, much like Lyanna Stark's statue was a symbol for Robert.  Symbols of much simpler times. When Jon helped to win Winterfell back from the Boltons, it had indeed been satisfying to see his father’s banners restored to the walls. But it was an empty shell of a place. The only Starks that remained were buried in the crypt. His home was still lost to him, and leaving it behind again had been much simpler than he'd expected.

 

And that’s really all it was in the end. Jon wanted to _go home_. King’s Landing was fast paced and curious and he’d enjoyed getting to know his aunt and blood brother. But King’s Landing was theirs. Not his. Winterfell was Sansa’s, she and Rickon had taken it back and made it House Stark again; and Jon was very much a part of Winterfell. Had he understood that sooner, he might never have left in the first place. He could have watched over Bran and Rickon on Robb’s behalf, though he probably would have joined Robb’s war council as Theon had. Would Catelyn Stark have returned home then? Would she have trusted Jon to advise her beloved son? Most days, there was no answer to that question. And after all, Sansa was right. Had Jon been there, he would have died alongside them. Arya would have rescued Sansa alone, both of her tormentors would still be breathing and Winterfell would have remained with the Boltons. Maybe this was the reason the Red Woman had risen him from the dead, maybe his true purpose was to barricade Sansa thoroughly on the Throne in the North all along. His aunt was right. To maintain her claim, Sansa needed an heir. She needed an heir the South had a vested interest in. She needed a Targaryen.

 

But would Sansa see it that way? Would Sansa understand what he was trying to do for her? Would she appreciate the gesture or be disgusted? Cousins may marry cousins all the time in the North. But, there was good reason incest was so frowned upon. The Barrowlands were harsh and the Wolfswood unforgiving. Outside of the forts and the keeps and the castles, children often did not survive. And a warped child would die much quicker. One only had to look at Gilly and her sisters. They’d had proper nourishment because of their lord’s arrangement with the Night’s Watch. Most of them were still thin and sickly with addled brains; the Free Folk saw them as unclean.

 

Thinking of Gilly rent a deep well of guilt in him, but it also made him think of Sam. Jon smiled when he thought of the odd little family, Samwell Tarly, Gilly Crastor, Little Sam, and Mance. The first thing Sam did when he returned from Oldtown was to go looking for Little Sam, to return him to Gilly at Horn Hill. One of Val’s spearwives had been looking after him. Then the new Maester had ridden to the Wall to aid Jon and Daenerys. Now, Sam was serving as Maester at Winterfell, and Rickon loved him dearly. Gilly served as Sansa’s companion, and only did the washing up and the mending if she wished to. Both boys were strong and healthy, living at the castle as Rickon’s young companions. Jon decided to write of his travel plans to his old friend as well, hoping his soft manner of speaking would sway Sansa in his favor. But Jon needn’t have worried so. A sennight and a day after sending his raven, he received a prompt reply from Sansa. There was no greeting or signature, just her seal and two words.

 

_Come home. _

 

They left earlier than planned. Jon was eager to get on the road, eager to be North of the Neck again. Their party was small, meant to move quickly and not attract unnecessary attention. Dany, Aegon, Jorah, and Tyrion came to see them off. Jorah spoke in low tones with Aegon and Dany, who looked exasperated. Jorah and the King tended to bicker about Dany’s safety. If you added Grey Worm to the mix, it turned into a brawl. At that point, Dany would ask Tyrion to accompany her for a drink and bid Jon to stay and babysit the squabbling trio. But since Jon was leaving, she was forced to mediate, and she continuously shot her nephew mournful, beleaguered looks that were more amusing than pitiful. However, it gave Tyrion an opening to approach Jon as he readied his mount.

 

“I am shocked to see you so eager to ride, Ser Jon,” the Lord Hand teased. “Considering your obvious reluctance during small council.”

 

Jon rolled his eyes, securing his pack’s strap, “I am eager to be home again. To see my cousins.”

 

“One in particular, I’d say.”

 

“I haven’t seen Rickon in almost a year. I am very excited to him.”

 

“You’re becoming facetious, Ser Jon. It’s a good look on you.”

 

Jon observed the dwarf for a long moment. Of anyone he’d ever met, Tyrion Lannister could empathize with his upbringing best. Isolation from siblings, dead mothers, a label. They had bonded on the Wall, Jon had felt true kinship with him. And yet he really misliked the man, misliked his double speak and irreverence. But Dany trusted him and his judgement, and he’d been kind to Sansa in a dark hour, so Jon was conflicted. Still, he wasn’t fond of the arrogance, his sense of entitlement. He buckled his last strap.

 

“You’ll never have her. You can have whatever you like south of the Neck. Take the Stormlands, her grace hasn’t installed anyone at Storm’s End. Have a go at the Reach, their lord’s a cripple and his house is dead. Hell, choose yourself a Northern bride if it suits you. But you’ll never have her.”

 

“Awfully possessive of a woman you claim to love as a sister.”

 

Jon nodded slightly, “To my last breath.”

 

“Forgive me, but that’s a cheap promise from a man who’s been dead before.”

 

“All the stronger, I’d think, since I don't seem to stay dead,” Jon shot back, feeling the heat in his own eyes. Dany had warned him about his Targaryen temper, the impulsivity, but Jon had always labelled it as Stark stubbornness. Perhaps the two weren’t so very different. Perhaps that was how his parents came together in the first place. Tyrion shifted his weight back, regarding Jon with his shrewd, beady eyes.

 

“I don't believe there is a man alive worthy of your cousin, Jon Targaryen, but if ever a man could come close, it would be you.” Jon nodded his thanks, knowing the compliment was reluctantly given. “Should she ever want for anything, you know who to send the raven to.” The offer wasn’t made in jest, it wasn’t a slight against Jon’s abilities. It was a genuine, sincere offer of friendship and for one moment, Jon realized what the three Queens saw in the last Lannister. He extended a hand to the Royal Hand, and they clasped each other’s elbows. For once, the two of them in complete agreement. No man was worthy of Sansa Stark, and the two of them would go to great lengths to protect her interests.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was pointed out to me that I have Robb and Cat dying at Riverrun and not the Twins.... *grouchy face*  
> Big oversight. It ties into another part of Arya's storyline which shows up in chapter 22.   
> But I'm way too lazy to go back and re-work any of this, so mucho apologies.
> 
> Proceed.

It took his party three months to get to Winterfell. Dany wanted him to be subtle, wanted him to see most of the northern lords before stopping there. No one would look twice at that. She didn't want panicked scrambling before they could make an official announcement. She didn’t want Tyrells banging on her door or Martells threatening thematic vengeance. Jon didn't care about the politics of it. He cared about Sansa’s reaction, about how she’d feel about it.

 

Arya accompanied his party, even though she had given Jon the impression that the queen wanted her to stay and select a suitable Southron husband. He knew a Martell would be on the shortlist, and after meeting Quentyn, Jon didn’t think the pair of them would do too badly together. Quentyn was smart and able when he chose to be. Jon could only wonder how she managed to sweet talk her way into the trip. Regardless, her presence was balm against his guard. Ser Davos was there of course, but he missed Tormund’s bawdiness, Val’s wild speech, Sam’s unfailing reasonableness. He occasionally even missed his brothers in black.

 

The Southron knights were perfectly fine, they just weren’t Northmen. Five accompanied him and Arya, more than happy to be out on the road, free of their usual finery, but still pampered at various castles. Thankfully, Arya had already gained a reputation in the training yard, so there was little need to worry about her being taken advantage of.

 

Those who hadn’t seen her fight, had heard the fate of Illyn Payne. When Daenerys asked Arya to join her court, the young Stark had only two requests. The first was anonymity. The second was bodily rights to the former executioner. Dany ordered the scraps be fed to the dragons. The image still made Jon shudder; one girl cold as ice, the other as indifferent as fire.

 

And those knights that hadn’t heard the story, heard the rumor that Needle was one of six blades Arya carried on her person, and one was specifically for gelding. What the queen thought of this, Jon didn't know, and he could only assume that Sansa disapproved. But Arya was First Marshal to the Master-of-Arms, Grey Worm, and as such, was often afforded freedom and liberties other ladies of the court were not. The pair of them, slight Arya and severe Grey Worm, got along famously. She, Grey Worm, and Ser Jorah, could often be found in each other’s company.

 

From a particular meeting with them, Jon was under the impression that they both harbored a healthy, respectful fear of Arya. Jon knew why as well; not many women her size insisted on sparring blindfolded against a seasoned swordsman. Perhaps she wasn’t always victorious, but she held her own long enough for men like Jorah to question what she could do with her eyes uncovered. Grey Worm’s only comment was that she had been well-trained, so there was very little to question. _She could kill you_ , he’d said _, and kill you quickly_. High praise from the stoic soldier.

 

They sat at their fire, away from the knights, talking lowly about the things they’d seen at the last few castles. Arya had refused to enter Riverrun, claiming it was where her mother, brother, and lord uncle died. Telling Jon that she had no use for the place anymore since she’d finished her “list.” Again, Jon knew better than to ask. He had graciously given her Ghost as a companion while she camped outside the limits. Her Uncle Edmure was disappointed not to see his young niece, but he understood her reasons. And as Jon still deeply mistrusted the Karstarks, he had asked Arya to be his eyes and ears. So he assuaged her rancor about Riverrun and she told him how eager the former traitors were to please their new queens.

 

“The threat of dragons is a great motivator, I think,” Arya informed him sardonically. “But the smallfolk aren't happy with their lords, for sure. They think it was a foul trick, backing the Boltons.”

 

“They thought House Stark was dead.”

 

“They had Rickon. The Boltons had Rickon and there was no excuse.”

 

“Rickon was barely seven, Arya.” They hadn’t discovered Rickon until they returned Sansa to Winterfell. He was found at Dreadfort by Ser Davos, who’d been commissioned by the Manderlys to find the Stark boy. Davos followed the rumors all the way to Skagos, where a Wildling woman told him that her sister Osha had taken charge of a boy of a Southron house, only to be murdered and the boy stolen away. As Dany and Stannis had battled in the South, Ser Davos scoured the North, under the guise of a merchant, until one of the smallfolk of the Umbers told him that she’d seen a group of men chop the head off of a black wolf the size of an ox. The direwolf many Northmen had reported sightings of.

 

By the time he reached Dreadfort, it was long since abandoned. Rickon, starved and mad with fever, had been chained in the dungeons. Davos had nursed him back to health and stayed with him until news reached him that Sansa was returning to Winterfell. Jon and the girls had been overjoyed to have their little brother back, and there was a short time when they thought Dany might amend Sansa’s title to Regent. But it became quite clear that Rickon would never be of sound mind, too damaged and fractured to be fit to rule. Sansa’s place was secure and she named Arya her heir.

 

“He was still heir to Winterfell. But it’s not my trust that lot needs. It’s Sansa’s and she’s even less forgiving than I am. Her last raven said she was having doubts. And I wonder what Daenerys would think of her doubts.”

 

“Sansa will make good judgements, I'm sure. The last thing she wants is my aunt meddling in Northern affairs. Daenerys is a good politician, but she can be ruthless, and the North is only just starting to rebuild. The Karstarks abandoned their oaths because of Robb’s decisions. Sansa isn't Robb. Sansa is piecing the North back together, she isn’t scrapping for a title or riding for her captive family. She will handle them.”

 

Arya smiled wryly, “You have a lot of faith in her.”

 

“As much as I have in you. You both survived when seasoned warriors and experienced politicians did not. And there was no one to protect you. No one to shield you…” He trailed off, trying to stamp down the melancholic thoughts. “And besides, she has Sam to advise her. He’s good counsel, he’ll steer her right.”

 

They were quiet for a while, with Jon stoking the fire and Arya picking at her rabbit, passing chunks to Ghost in turns. They were a day’s ride from Winterfell and the wolf’s song resounded on the breeze. Jon watched his sister-cousin tilt her head, listening for one song in particular. All along the King’s Road, Arya’s sight and ears had pierced the deep woods, her focus drifting increasingly the further north they went. She’d told him of Lady’s death, that she’d loosed Nymeria in the Trident. The direwolf was rumored to be roaming about in the Riverlands, leading a pack of man-eating gray wolves. Though in his wolf dreams, Jon had visions of Ghost seeing her near the Wall. Perhaps she had made her way north to her birthlands. Jon knew Arya was hopeful that she’d find her.

 

“Tyrion told me what the queen asked of you.”

 

“The imp talks too much,” he grumbled sullenly. Honestly, did the man have _any_ boundaries?

 

“Don't call him that,” Arya chastised softly. Jon scowled. No matter what accord they’d come to, he misliked Tyrion still and didn’t trust him. However, all the women in his life seemed to have grown fond of the half-man. It was galling beyond reason. Was it pity? Were they giving him the benefit of the doubt? At the coronation Arya hadn’t seemed overly fond of him, and yet here she was correcting his speech on the subject. _Honestly_.

 

“I take it you have reservations?” he shot back snidely, hoping to anger her a little.

 

Arya pursed her lips, not bothering to ask him what he was referring to. “You have to admit it’s strange.”

 

“More than. _Strange_ doesn’t begin to describe it. But, certainly it is not as strange as if she had asked me to marry _you_.” Arya recoiled, her expression revolted, and he barked out a laugh. He couldn’t help it. And he couldn’t in true be angry with her, not even when she favored a Lannister. “Still...I know I'm not a good choice. But perhaps a sight better than anyone else. I hope she sees—”

 

“She will. Maybe not at first. But—”

 

“But?”

 

“But she wants us home. She wants us with her… I’ve asked Daenerys to make my leave permanent.”

 

He gawked, “You’re staying at Winterfell? You won’t return to King’s Landing?”

 

“I’ll be more useful to Sansa. My marriage to a Southron lord will make more of an impact in the North, since I am Sansa’s heir.” She paused, eyeing him hesitantly. “I just want to go home. I want us all to be together again. You, me, Sansa, and Rickon. Back at Winterfell. Don't you want that too?” Jon offered her a wan smile, something tinged with sadness and reached for her hand. She clasped it warmly, eyes bright.

 

“More than anything.”

 

*

 

They sent a raven ahead and reached the castle before nightfall. Of course Sansa had the whole household out in force to greet them. They all cheered at the sight of Arya, though Davos insisted it was for Jon as well. Most of the walls were as high and thick as ever, dour gray against the gray-yellow backdrop of the Northern twilight. Jon’s mind flashed back to the day he’d first seen it before battling the Boltons, how dark it had seemed, scorched black and empty. Someone else’s banner flew from the turrets and the battlements. The sight had broken his heart. Seeing it now, seeing familiar forms, mended what was broken and spurred him on.

 

Even from a distance, they could see Rickon vibrating with energy, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He looked a proper little lord, with his shiny black jerkin and his fur trimmed cloak. Jon swore he’d grown a foot, but he still looked thin as a reed, while his curls flounced boyishly about. Sansa, standing regal with her braids piled on her head and smiling brightly, wore the same demure blue gown with the red wolf she’d worn to King’s Landing which bespoke thrift and good sense. Very much unlike the ladies in the capital who seemed to have a new dress for every small occasion. With a heavy hand, she managed to keep Rickon in place right up until they dismounted. Jon and Arya approached together, but Rickon blew by his sister without hesitation, barreling into Jon who swept him up like he was still a small child. He was nearing ten now. But his excitement wasn’t the shock. No, what sent a chill down Jon’s spine was Rickon’s childish cry.

 

“ _Papa! Papa!”_

 

Jon held the animated boy tightly to his chest, returning his embrace even as his gut roiled. Even as he heard Arya’s soft gasp, even as Sansa’s hand went to her mouth, even as tears pricked their eyes. Sansa had said Rickon wasn’t well, that his time on Skagos, on the run, in the Bolton’s dungeons, had disturbed his mind. He had warged into Shaggydog when the Boltons’ men cut off the direwolf’s head. It was enough to disturb even the strongest of minds. But this? Jon set the boy to his feet, crouched to meet his eyes, placing his hands on the sides of his waist.

 

“Do you know me, sweetling?” he asked softly. “Do you remember my face?”

 

Rickon tilted his head to the side, like a curious pup. He raised his hand, fingers brushing Jon’s features, touching his nose and eyes. Jon submitted to this patiently, willingly, silently begging the gods. Rickon’s face was blank, devoid of understanding as he took in the man before him. Jon was terrified of frightening him, of upsetting him beyond reason. How does one remind a fractured child that his father is long dead? In a strange moment, Rickon cupped his hands and put them over Jon’s eyes.

 

“Not Papa’s eyes,” he whispered. Then he pulled his hands away, scrutinizing, put them back, pulled them away. “Papa’s face. But not Papa’s eyes…” He was silent for an awkward length as he stared. “ _Not_ Papa,” he breathed, “ _Jon_? Jon!” The boy squealed and launched himself back into Jon’s arms, his own arms going tightly around Jon’s neck. Jon gripped him even tighter, shoving his face into his unruly auburn curls. Then Rickon pulled back, beaming.

 

“You came home! You came home! You came home!”

 

Jon smiled and tapped his nose, “Yes I did, little lord, yes, I did.”

 

Rickon crowed his victory, grabbed Jon’s and Arya’s hands, and dragged them both to Sansa all the while shouting to his sister that their siblings were home. Sansa stood, being comforted by Gilly and Brienne, shoulders shaking as she laughed through her tears. She greeted Arya with a warm kiss on her cheek, and ruffled Rickon’s hair as she greeted each of Jon’s knights in turn. Of course she knew all their names, knew their houses and wished their families well. Then she turned to Jon, a genuine smile on her face.

 

“Lord Targaryen,” the name seemed to roll off her lips easily, as if well-practiced, but her brows lifted in amusement, slightly mocking, “Welcome home.” There rose a swell of pride in Jon’s chest as he took her in, one he was at a loss to explain reasonably. Instead, surprising even Arya, he took to his knees at her feet and kissed the hand she proffered. He chuckled softly through his nose when Rickon crashed to his knees next to him, wanting to kiss her hand too, and interrupting the heartfelt display. But he wasn’t put off by it.

 

“It is good to be home,” he said meaningfully, flicking his gaze up to hers, “ _Your grace_.” She smiled, probably not because of his kneeling or using her title, but because on his Targaryen cloak he’d pinned the Stark sigil he kept hidden close to him in King’s Landing. With a smirk, she bid him to rise and come in for supper. The household cheered again and the Master of Horses sent his men to collect the knights’ mounts. Uncharacteristically, Jon let them lead Greystar off instead of putting him up himself. Rickon clutched his hand so tightly and Sansa took his arm, so he was left little choice in the matter. Arya walked alongside Gilly just behind them, chatting amiably about one thing or another. Jon found the girls to be remarkably similar in nature, though different in experience. Arya appreciated a woman with a wide range of skills, and Gilly was probably happy to speak to a woman wilder than herself. All in all it was a happy procession into Winterfell’s great Hall, where they found Sam speaking to a steward as they finished preparations. Jon missed the way Sansa’s eyes glittered in amusement when Sam and Jon caught sight of each other. She dropped his arm readily and reached for Rickon so Jon could embrace his sworn brother unimpeded.

 

“Jon!” Sam called out sunnily, his whole face lit up with joy. They strode quickly to each other, embracing unabashedly. It was so good to see him again, so good to see his teasing eyes happy and his ready smile ever fixed in place.

 

“I have missed you, brother,” Jon said clapping him on the shoulders, his cheeks hurting from smiling so much. “King’s Landing was foolish to give you up.” Sam blushed as they released each other.

 

“Oh, well, I dunno about tha’, but I have missed you. North isn’t the same without Jon Snow defending it.” Jon’s smile brightened at the use of his first name. The one given him. He knew Sam would never fall prey to the titles and the shifts. Only Sam would see him as just Jon, for always. It warmed him to the tips of his toes. “And anyway, who could stand all that sunshine?” he laughed.

 

“Who, indeed?” Sansa chimed in, coming to stand next to them. “Give me a good blizzard any day.” Behind her Arya laughed heartily and ruffled Rickon’s hair, the boy preening under her affectionate attention.

 

“We’d better eat,” Arya japed, “Before her grace starts waxing poetic about her love for the North and we die of old age.” Sansa merely rolled her eyes with a blush tinging her cheeks as they chuckled at her expense.

 

She called for the steward to usher everyone in and begin serving food. Sam escorted her and Gilly up to the main table, where Jon was given the seat next to her, the seat her mother had always taken. Jon had to admit, sitting at the head table in Winterfell, in the center of the dais, was a strange sensation indeed. The view was substantially different from where he’d usually been seated at the very end of the table. He remembered bitterly that night he’d been forced out of the head table, remembered how angry he’d been. The ghost of Catelyn Stark’s sneering disapproval swarmed his vision as the hall filled with the castle’s household and guests. Sansa must have sensed his tension because even as she spoke to Ser Davos across the table, she dropped a hand to Jon’s where it lay on the armrest.  It was so strange and comforting at the same time that he nearly flinched, but Sansa didn’t even look at him. Regardless, her actions pulled him away from his churlish thoughts long enough to focus on the conversation happening around him.

 

“…you’re joking!” Sansa was laughing, “You absolutely did not _say that_!” Her bright merriment rang out, making those around them smile, even Brienne. Ser Davos chortled gruffly, obviously pleased with making her laugh.

 

“I did. It wasn’t exactly a wise decision, but I did have a dozen crates of steel swords in my hold and certainly no papers granting me permissions for it.”

 

“But how did you escape?” she asked, hand tightening on Jon’s. He attempted to focus on Ser Davos’ response, something about dressing his men as women and convincing the guard he ran a brothel-ship. He’d even offered up his first mate as payment, apparently, though the guard found him too ugly. Sansa tossed her head back in glee. As she did, Jon turned his hands so that their palms came together, fingers lacing. 

 

The dinner went long into the night, everyone content to sup and get each other up to date on their activities. Wine from White Harbor was passed around generously. As the fires went down and the children drooped, Sansa dismissed the servants and other members of the household. Several from the head table begged off for rest, including Davos, who wrangled Rickon back to his chambers. The boy recognized the Onion Knight as his rescuer and had been plastered to his side all evening. Soon enough it was Sam, Jon, and Sansa who remained, with Sam entertaining Sansa with stories about Jon’s time on the Wall, and Jon with stories about the rebuilding.

 

“And then he _tripped_! Sent all the bricks flying about! I thought Herryng would gut him where he stood!” Sam laughed heartily as Sansa giggled behind her hand. Watching them together, Jon felt something tight in his chest loosen considerably. For whatever reason, it hadn’t occurred to him that he _was_ anxious about how the young queen and her new Maester would get along. He would have been devastated if Sansa misliked him or if Sam thought her too prudish or discourteous.

 

He laughed with them, “Still, you’ve been plenty busy. You can’t see any damage from the Road.”

 

“Aye,” Sam said with a nod. “But there’s still more and more to do. Every time a wall goes up, another has to come down. We’re always finding something else to fix. Right mess, it is.”

 

“We’ll fix it,” Jon said with an easy shrug. His friend and cousin both stared at him. “What?” Sam looked at him as if he were the biggest idiot he’d met.

 

“You’re staying?”

 

Ah, yes, well… “For a while. If it pleases,” he tossed a glance at Sansa, whose brow was furrowed. “And Arya has petitioned to stay on…”

 

“In true?” Sam asked in delight, “I’ve heard of her reputation in the yard. Perhaps she’ll get your Queensguard into fighting shape, eh Milady?”

 

Jon watched the furrow disappear from her brow as she smiled at Sam, “Perhaps. But it’s more likely that she’ll wound their egos than get any real training done.” Jon chuckled.

 

“I’ll just have to teach them how to best her then.”  Sam beamed, but Sansa paused.

 

“You would stay that long?” 

 

Jon was acutely aware of Sam’s presence at the table, but he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from Sansa’s. Daenerys had said she would write to her, that she would make her _suggestion_. There was no way his cousin didn’t know her Sister Queen’s intentions, no way that she didn’t know his purpose here. And yet, did she doubt? Did she honestly believe he would let them return her to Tyrion Lannister? Or offer her up on a platter to the highest bidder? Like _hell_. After a long moment, he heard Sam loudly clear his throat. Jon turned his head sharply, flicking his gaze from Sam to the door, not giving him the chance to misunderstand. In his endearingly clumsy way, Sam made his excuses and retired for the evening, telling them both to get some rest. Evidently, Sansa had had a trying day. When Sam turned the corner, Jon turned back to Sansa.

 

“Why was your day trying?” he demanded sharply. If she’d tired herself preparing for their arrival, that was one thing. But he’d have the head of anyone who truly disturbed her. She sighed noisily, settling deeper into her chair and sipped at the remnants of her wine. She kept her blue gaze forward, away from him, probably sullenly annoyed at male overprotectiveness.

 

“It’s the Karstarks. The Umbers too, I suppose. Harrion sent Arthor this morning to complain of the new Wilding settlements near their land. He’s not exactly pleased with the arrangement. He refused to stay the night, however, and opted for Wintertown. An insult, no doubt.”

 

“Do they complain often?” he asked curtly, realizing that this was partly his responsibility. The Wildlings had been granted territories as repayment for their efforts against the Others. _He_ had chosen those territories and presented the proposal to his aunt. Naturally, Daenerys had delivered the edict to Sansa as a finality instead of a discussion. Though, Jon could easily have predicted the Umbers’ and the Karstarks’ reactions. They were lucky not to have the Glovers pounding down their doors. Sansa dragged a hand across her brow.

 

“I get a letter every sennight with _lists_ of complaints. Not just from them, but their bannermen and smallfolk as well. Though there isn’t much I can do about it, is there?” She sounded tired, absolutely resigned to hearing about this one thing she couldn’t resolve. To send the Wildlings back into the Haunted Forest would be an insult to the Dragon Queen. They were settled in the Gift for good reason, and she couldn’t allow the bannermen to browbeat her into attacking Wildlings. They were only complaining because, occasionally, the Free Folk would wander into their towns, looking for food or ale or a woman to warm their beds. Thus far, there had been very little outright violence.

 

“And what does your council say?” Jon’s question had her eyes rolling. In the North, Sansa’s council was even smaller that Daenerys’. She didn’t keep a Hand, didn’t have a Southron Advisor. Dorin, her steward, served as her Master of Coin, Brienne was her Lady Commander of the Queensguard and her Mistress of War, Sam was her Grand Maester, and Alysane Mormont’s son and Lady Lyanna’s cousin, Maeor, served as her Master of Laws. Tyrion had expressed his concerns about the counsel Sansa kept, but Arya implied that not was all it seemed in the North. Her “little birds” were of a different color than Varys’ had been, apparently. Though Jon didn’t know entirely what that meant.

 

“They are not entirely helpful,” she said slowly. “Sam often provides good counsel, but Brienne and Maeor seem to think that martial intervention is necessary. I disagree, of course. If the Free Folk were raping and reeving, we would know about it, and more than just the lords would complain. They’re not trying to take land or burn towns to the ground; they’re just being nuisances.” She huffed and knocked her head back against her chair. “The longer I stall, the weaker I look, but I can’t see any viable solution.”

 

“Then we’ll speak to them. Together.”

 

“You mean _you_ would speak to them,” she corrected crossly, turning her face away to scowl. Jon could only roll his eyes at her petulance.

 

“No, I mean _we_. Mostly you. I would just stand next to you as…reinforcement. The Free Folk’s presence in the Gift is lawful by the Queen’s command. You are upholding her wishes, and I’ll stand behind you so they follow them. We can call the lords here within the sennight, call up Tormund, Val, and Sigorn Thenn at the very least…” He trailed off when she shifted in her seat. She sighed deeply, finally letting herself look at him again, and again, he could see how tired she was. Repairs were taking longer than expected, food was scarce and had to be portioned out to each keep, and now all this. Thankfully, Winterfell’s court was marginal compared to King’s Landing. Northmen preferred their own halls.

 

“I have tried, you know. But Lord Umber and Tormund get on like a pair of rabid dogs…I can usually contain the Umbers since they know their place, but you know the Free Folk better than anyone. If I can’t stop their mouths, I can’t stop the arguments. Which usually ends in a brawl.” She glared at him when he snorted, remembering very well how Free Folk politics played out. Sansa would find it tiresome. “And _besides_ , Tormund annoys Brienne.” That made him roll his eyes and ease back into his chair.

 

“Everyone annoys Brienne,” he shot back drolly. He leaned his head back against the high back, grinding the crown of his head.

 

“He has a _gift_ ,” she snapped, obviously sick unto death of hearing about that too. It made him smirk. He seemed to recall Tormund’s _direct_ approach when it came to women. Yes, it would definitely annoy the very straitlaced Lady Brienne. “And if I can’t control Tormund—”

 

“You can’t,” he agreed.

 

She gaped, clearly offended. “Then how am I to permit him on my lands?” she squawked indignantly. “If I cannot control him, then I cannot _abide_ him!” Jon smiled, letting out a soft laugh as he eased his head back to look up at the wooden beams of the ceiling. He knew that during festival times, intricate garlands and banners were strung up, colorful and extravagant. He and Arya had watched the servants hang them two days in row when they were children. Back then they thought it a useless exercise, since no one would look up at the ceiling. But now he missed how bright and cheerful they made the Hall seem; he’d dreamed of it sometimes at amidst the drudgery of Castle Black.

 

“Your grace, I didn’t mean to say that _you_ specifically can’t control him. I meant that _no one_ can,” he told her gently, still tracing the paths of the beams from side to side.  Jon heard her sniff primly, obviously irritated with him.

 

“Then what exactly am I supposed _to do_?” she demanded snappishly. Sam was right. She needed to rest. If she was this high strung over petty complaints, then she wasn’t sleeping properly. Sansa in a temper wouldn’t do anyone any good. The Umbers would probably lose their heads…or worse. Or Tormund would. Brienne would probably volunteer. _That_ would be an interesting fight.

 

“Does he talk over you? Interrupt you?”

 

“Usually.”

 

Jon shrugged, “Free Folk choose their own leaders. They choose who they respect. You have to earn his respect first. Then you don’t need to control him.”

 

“But if he won’t do as I say—”

 

“Your grace, the Free Folk will never do _anything_ that _anyone_ says. That’s their way.  You’ve got to get him to actually talk to Karstark and the others. Get the Northmen to negotiate and you’ll get Tormund to make concessions.”

 

“How can you be sure?”

 

“Because if the Free Folk think the Northern lords are trying to take something from them, they’ll retaliate by taking from the lords. But if they’re getting something in exchange for something else, well, then that’s just another bit of business. The Free Folk keep their word; get the Karstarks to offer something up and Tormund and Val will get their people to fall in line.”

 

She narrowed her eyes, looking off in the middle distance to think. “I don’t know what they’d want. And I certainly don’t know what the Karstarks would offer.”

 

He shrugged, rolling his head to look at her again, “Leave that part to me. I’ll handle Tormund and Val.”

 

“But if _you’re_ handling them, how will they ever respect _me_ as a leader?” 

 

Jon nodded thoughtfully, taking that into consideration. The spearwives among the Free Folk had killed their way to the top. They’d demonstrated their ability to fight for and defend their people. He’d earned their respect by doing the same. How was a Southron lady to earn their respect? It was a conundrum. But Sansa was honest and well-intentioned. Her heart was in the right place, and she truly wanted peace in her lands. She didn’t care that the Wildlings had been forced on her; they were hers to protect and defend now, and she would do it unfailingly. But she could only do that if they respected her; she could only do that if her bannermen took their oaths seriously. Sansa watched him imploringly, her wide eyes begging him to help her. And suddenly, she was a small child who’d Robb abandoned in the middle of their game and needed a new partner to carry on. How many times had he taken Robb’s place in her games so Robb could attend his lessons? Too many to count.

 

“You’ll know what to do, Sansa. When the time comes, you’ll know what to do.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this thing is pretty much finished, but I'll post it in chunks pretty regularly!

Sansa stood in the morning light that seeped in through her solar window overlooking the yard and beyond. If she lifted her eyes, she would gaze upon the First Keep and the thick forest of the North. But her eyes were resolutely down, observing the activity of the training yard. Her mother had stood watch here so many years ago, watching her eldest son train to become a warrior. Robb had always been a good fighter, very good, and Sansa had thought him her perfect knight. But another had trained right alongside him. Another had challenged his reputation always. Another had risen up and proved himself the best in all the Seven time and again.

 

Below, Jon sparred with Podrick as Ser Davos and the Southron knights called out encouragement and advice. It did him no good. He was clunky and stilted where Jon was all litheness and grace. Over and over Jon landed a graceful killing blow, or else put the former squire on his arse. Podrick had fought in the wars, he had killed men before and survived it all. And yet, the formalities, the dance of it, escaped him. Jon knew all the steps.

 

“You know what he wants,” Brienne’s prim voice spoke clearly from behind her, ever watchful, ever mindful of her mistress’ moods and movements. She was good counsel, a good confidante, the Maiden of Tarth. People mocked her, they questioned her abilities. They tried to belittle her because she looked more a man, because she was so stringent in her code of honor. But her presence soothed Sansa’s nerves, her ferocity and keenness reminded her so much of her father and she relied upon it.

 

“I know what _she_ wants,” Sansa replied smoothly. Her eyes followed Jon’s movements. He stepped into Pod’s advance, using the man’s speed and bulk to trounce him once again. Davos made some comment with a rueful shake of his head that had Jon tossing his head back to laugh as he helped Pod to his feet. A squire brought them horns of water. Jon clapped Pod on the back, dipping his head to mutter something that had the man nodding enthusiastically. Sansa inhaled deeply as Jon instinctively turned, drinking deeply from his horn, to face the Keep. He lifted his head to her window, eyes landing on her without searching. She wondered how often his gaze had sought out her mother, hoping for approval and finding only disdain. She wondered if he was so familiar with her window because he always worried she would disapprove. It made her inexplicably sad. He dipped his head to her, and she answered with a tilt of her own head before Davos called his attention away.

 

“But can he be trusted, your grace?” Brienne asked, moving forward to stand beside her. “He may have been your brother once, but he has lingered in King’s Landing for some time. No doubt his aunt has influenced him.”

 

“No doubt,” she murmured, watching as a blur of auburn curls dashed across the yard toward Jon, who intercepted the prince into a tight hug. Rickon’s first impulse this morning had been to run to find Jon. Sansa had managed to convince him to dress, eat, and visit Sam first. Evidently the maester hadn’t been able to keep him long. He babbled to Jon happily, hands on his broad shoulders, feet swinging. And Jon beamed at the boy, nodding along as he listened avidly, completely unaware of the smirking onlookers. Much like her father, Jon wasn’t one to withhold affection for the sake of his manly reputation. She had noticed that in King’s Landing, noticed how easily he handled Arya, how gently, no matter who watched. He set Rickon to his feet, crouching with him, and mussed his hair. Rickon smiled, talking more than he had in several moon’s turns. Rickon struggled with men, struggled to trust. He preferred the company of women, Sam being the one exception. His easiness with Jon spoke volumes, but not of Rickon.

 

“But Jon isn’t Daenerys. He isn’t Aegon or Tyrion or Davos. Jon is Jon. I trust him with everything,” she told Brienne firmly. She felt a nudge at her waist and realized that Ghost had entered to sit beside her, making bids for her attention. Sansa dropped a hand to the wolf’s head, letting her fingers card through his fur. It had been such a long time since she’d had a direwolf at her side. His presence brought her more comfort than she thought would ever be possible. Her heart ached for Lady, and Ghost whined in response. “He may be a dragon by blood,” Sansa said, looking down to meet Ghost’s adoring red gaze, “but he was raised among wolves. To me, he will always be a Stark.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blown away by everyone's responses! Thanks so much for reading!

Jon actively used the upcoming meeting with the Karstarks, the Umbers, and the Free Folk as a viable excuse to avoid discussing Daenerys’ plans for him and Sansa. Arya openly mocked him for it, though she understood his reasons, and Sam watched him wearily. He asked several times what his issue was, why he was acting so squirrely, especially when left alone with the Queen, but Jon brushed his questions off. Brienne watched him with narrowed, critical eyes, and clearly had an opinion on the subject. Thank the gods, old and new, that she kept her mouth shut about it. Jon hadn’t the first idea as to how to bring up the subject of marriage with Sansa, the girl he’d been raised with in that very house.

 

He wasn’t even sure he could convince her that he could behave properly. Brother, cousin, suitor or otherwise.  Yes, he’d had plenty of time to train in etiquette in Daenerys’ court in the capital, but it wasn’t the same. There, he had his guard up. There, he was Lord Targaryen and people deferred to him no matter how he behaved. But in Winterfell, he was once more Jon Snow. Just clumsy, brooding Jon who never knew how to speak to his lady sister, too pretty and too refined to spend her time with the likes of him. But with the added weight of his aunt’s request, it felt more like drowning. He was grateful to talk with her about disputes, repairs, minor political maneuvering. She occasionally even asked what Dany would say or do or think.

 

Those conversations were easy. So were most of his stories about his time with the Free Folk, with Stannis’ army, with Dany’s, with the dragons. If anything, the past few years had taught Sansa to be a good listener. Submissive and appealing. And the second he noticed it, his gut clenched. Her mind still shut him out, gave him no clue as to what she was truly thinking or feeling. She never offered him anything.

 

He just wanted to _talk_ with her. About normal things. Things that didn’t have to do with his parentage or his aunt’s mystical powers, things that didn’t pertain to her new role and title. _Normal things_. Did she still like lemon cakes? Did she have wolf dreams like him and Arya? Had she learned new songs? Did she still sing? What was going on with her needlework? Would she make him a new cloak? A Stark cloak? A Targaryen cloak? A mix of the two? Or was that too close to the parentage issue? Did she take long walks near the river still? Did she go alone or did Brienne go with her? Did Brienne’s constant presence annoy her or did it make her feel safe? He’d wager safe, probably, but then, she had so little time to herself. Had she been riding much recently? She had certainly improved her seat since he had brought her back to Winterfell, she had to have been practicing. Could he teach her to shoot? Or would she balk at that idea? But these questions all died in his throat whenever she looked at him, when she was tired, when she looked like another bit of bad news might be the tripping point past no return.

 

She’d set him up in the lord’s chamber, as Rickon preferred his nursery and Sansa had taken up her lady mother’s chambers. Which were juxtaposed to his. Their solars were even connected by a doorway. It was an unsettling feeling, sleeping in that bed, where the man he’d believed was his father had slept. Where he’d slept with his lady wife. All the servants said so, and they were willing to tell a bastard anything he wanted to know. Ned Stark and his wife rarely spent a night apart when he was in the castle. Jon, pacing those chambers, wondered what his lord guardian, father-uncle would have thought of the Dragon Queen’s plan.

 

Would he have been disgusted? Relieved? Would he have finally told Jon the truth about his parentage? Would he have put a stop to it? Jon couldn’t say. No one could. Arya didn’t seem overly repulsed by the thought, she seemed to be coming around to it. She’d even casually started making plans about “what they’d do” once they were officially members of the household. A future. A future with a wife and children, with a sister and brother and a friend who loved him. Lady Catelyn would have hated it, for sure. A bastard, even a princely Targaryen bastard, would never have been suitable for her beloved daughter. She would have cut Sansa’s throat herself before giving her to Jon. That was probably a gross exaggeration. Actually, thinking better of it, Catelyn would have cut _his_ throat instead. Always the trueborn child of her body over the bastard. He idly wondered if Ned had ever told his wife which Stark Jon truly belonged to. Every ghost in the room screamed _no_.

 

During the night, he heavily weighed the benefits and drawbacks of this plan. He thought about Sansa, about how she behaved around him. Sure, she hugged and touched him. She did so as a sister would a brother. She even seemed comfortable with Sam. So long as they were at a distance, she also seemed at ease with his knights, primarily Ser Davos. At a distance. He’d noticed it in King’s Landing too, the way she turned away, cringed when someone moved too close, the way she subtly shifted toward Brienne. It was a habit, he knew, a habit he’d seen in beat dogs. A habit he’d seen in Crastor’s women. A habit he’d seen in Sam. And the words echoed like blood pounding in his ears: _Someone hurt her_. More disturbing was how she didn’t flinch away from him. With Jon she was calm and complacent, not constantly searching out Brienne, not closed off. _Because she trusted him_. Would that change when his position in her life changed? If he opened that door would the trust go away? Would she recoil from him? Flinch away from his touch? She never appeared to be anything but at ease with him, and he wasn’t sure he could bear a falling out. Not now, not after everything.

 

He obsessed over these quandaries so much during the night that during the day, he frantically searched for other things to focus on.  Primarily the rebuilding. Sansa had other duties, heard petitions and the like. She didn’t spend the entire day planning for the one meeting, and so beyond their brief meetings with Sam and Ser Davos, he didn’t see much of her. Ghost abandoned him to haunt her heels, and could usually be found alongside her, head on her lap or her feet. Perhaps he’d picked up on her grief over Lady, or maybe he sensed Jon’s anxiety about her safety. It was hard telling, but the direwolf stood in for him when he avoided her like a craven whelp. Jon, however, put his manic energy into helping rebuild. Sam said he was mad, stripping down to work with the laborers, laying heavy stone bricks and mortar, helping direct the men, but Jon found it satisfying. The Boltons, the Greyjoys, and Stannis’ men had done a great deal of damage, and Sam was right, there was always something else that needed fixing.

 

Jon took great pleasure in physically piecing back together his ancestral home. Ned Stark’s son or not, Winterfell was his home. Had his mother lived, he might have visited often. He might have been raised here, as a lord equal to Robb and Theon. Perhaps.  All he had were questions, and the dead refused to answer him, so instead he threw himself into building something real. A home for his family, no matter what shape or form it took. If Sansa wouldn’t have him, and there was a strong possibility she wouldn’t, at the very least he could know that he’d done all he could. He could rest easy knowing he’d put up the walls that would protect her.

 

*

 

Their guests arrived a fortnight after Sansa received their replies. The Free Folk came first, since they were accustomed to picking up and riding without much notice. They were used to riding hard all day and had fewer possessions to weigh them down. Tormund and Val would be in attendance, but House Thenn would not be making an appearance, stating in Alys Thenn’s scrawling hand, that they would bow to Val’s better judgement. With the Queensguard and Jon’s knights scattered about the yard, Jon stood in between Sansa and Sam, with Brienne and Arya on Sansa’s left while Ghost sat in front of her, eyes scanning for any threats, almost like they were flanking Sansa defensively. And maybe they were. Jon had never seen Sansa interact with the Free Folk. He thought for a moment, when the gates opened and Tormund, Val, and two of their lieutenants poured through, that she might have been frightened. But from the pinch between her brows, Jon could only see exasperation. That was good. That would help.

 

As was utterly rude, Tormund rode his stallion right up to the welcoming party, stopping almost directly front of them before dismounting. Jon scowled at his impudence, realizing that Sansa had probably endured a good deal of nonsense from his old friend. And Jon _knew_ Tormund knew basic etiquette for greeting Southroners, specifically because Jon himself had taught him those rules. That he was flouting them now was deliberate. It was not going to be tolerated any longer. Over the course of several weeks, Jon had pondered over her predicament of how Sansa could earn the Free Folk’s respect. It was the one thing he could not obtain for her; he couldn’t hand it to her. Early that morning, he’d come to the realization that while he couldn’t act for her, he could certainly show her how to act. He turned slightly to Sansa, pulling a regretful, shrugging expression. She looked back in her bewilderment.

 

“Brace yourselves,” he muttered to his party.

 

Jon took two steps forward, “Giantsbane, you stupid buggering fuck! That’s no way to approach a kneeler queen!” Tormund Giantsbane, covered head to toe in furs with his wild white hair twisted about in sloppy braids, swung off his mount and stomped to loom over Jon. But then he looked over his shoulder to glare at Sansa.

 

“You went and _tattled_ on me to this lil’ coont?” he roared at her, jabbing his finger down at Jon. Jon heard Brienne gasp, Arya snigger, Sam sniff loudly, and Sansa actually _sighed_. What in the Seven hells had he been saying in front of his cousin? Behind him, Ghost growled, but didn’t move from Sansa. It seemed that the wolf’s loyalties had shifted, as he didn’t even trot over to greet Val like he’d been known to do.  Jon slugged him in the shoulder, getting Tormund’s attention and his ire.

 

“She didn’t tattle you thrice damned son of a whore,” he snapped. “I was visiting and got wind of everyone moaning about what a bloody miserable bastard you are!”

 

Tormund’s nostrils flared, “And what? You’re fighting the red bitch’s battles now?”  Jon sneered.

 

“No, I’m telling you to shut your fucking mouth and listen to somebody other than that bear you torment, you hoary minge before I make you kiss the ground her grace stands on.”

 

The two men glared each other down, hands on the pommels of their swords for a long moment. Looking absolutely furious. But Jon didn’t relent, he’d manage Tormund before, he didn’t flinch as the Wildling’s face contorted in a rage. He didn’t even bother greeting Val, who had quietly approached behind them, looking absolutely bored. Jon could hear the wind sweep down through the yard, heard the banners flapping and horses breathing in the silence as Tormund snarled at him. And then, just like that, it was over. A smile broke out on his face and the big Giantsbane tossed his head back in a hearty laugh, and Jon laughed right along. They threw their hands up and embraced each other, clapping the other’s back.

 

“Oh Lord Crow!” he laughed shaking his friend’s shoulders, “This fucking wasteland’s missed your sulky lordliness!”  Jon barked a laugh, relieved that his other titles weren’t brought up.

 

“I’ve missed you too, Tormund. But I’m no King Crow anymore and I do _not_ sulk.” His gaze was caught by Val slinking forward.  “Hello, Val,” he said, clapping her arm in his. Val smirked languidly at him, her eyes lowering along his body and travelling back up. She wore her bronze circlet, her white ermine around her shoulders emphasizing the deep gold of her hair. The ermine was almost the same pale color of her eyes, which twinkled merrily.

 

“You look well, Jon Snow. Nice to see your pretty face again.”

 

“Thank you, Val.”

 

“If you’re sticking around you should come by me tent. We can share a flagon of that goat’s milk you liked so much,” she winked mockingly at him, making him flush harder than he had as a boy.

 

“Tempting offer,” he said blandly, “But I’m still hurting from last time.” The Wildlings in front of him howled their laughter while his family behind him scoffed at the indecency of the display. Though, he knew Sam would be shaking with his silent amusement. He let Val kiss his cheek and introduce him to their respective second-in-commands, talking in their rapid fire language that took a good deal of time to learn properly. As he talked with them for a moment, he knew that Sansa would be seething, and that the others would be irked since this wasn’t exactly proper protocol for a visit to a royal house. But if they were going to wrangle Tormund and the other Free Folk into something resembling a compromise, they would need to know Jon meant to follow through with whatever Sansa commanded. And he would, no matter what conclusion she reached. If that meant he had to play nice first and take a few Wildling heads later, so be it.

 

Once he’d gone through the rounds with the Free Folk, he led them to a very unamused looking Sansa. She pulled that face at him that she’d made as a child whenever he said something foolish. It made him cringe a little, but he also wanted to laugh. Some things didn’t change.

 

“Since you’re obviously too stupid to live, Tormund, allow me to make proper introductions. Your grace, Tormund Giantsbane, Tall-talker, Horn-blower and Breaker of Ice, Husband to Bears, the Mead-king of Ruddy Hall, Speaker to Gods, Father of Hosts, and Lord of Oakenshield. This is Lady Val, sister of Dalla and Queen-Beyond-the-Wall." He nearly laughed at Tormund's grumbling about him remembering everybody's damn stupid titles. "And this is Eliad and Meralla, chieftains and advisors.” Sansa dipped her head low in acknowledgement, a sight more than they deserved in his opinion. He put a hand out toward Sansa, “Free Men, this is Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, Warden of the North, Queen of the Trident, and Queen in the North.” The Free Folk nodded at her, but they did not kneel, as was their custom. “And also my lady _cousin_ ,” he hissed under his breath. Tormund looked at him exasperatedly, but didn’t respond. “You know Maester Samwell Tarly and Lady Brienne, and this is Lady Arya, her grace’s sister, and First Marshal in the Dragon Queen’s City Watch.”

 

Their introductions were overly formal, Sansa thought, especially considering that she had met both Tormund and Val on several occasions previously. But as she watched Jon’s easy manner with them, she realized that he was making some kind of point. In fact, there was a glint in his eyes that Sansa remembered from when they were children. It was usually when Robb said something cruel or her mother was cold to him, but Jon couldn’t say anything for fear of being turned away. A look that said he saw something being done improperly, some injustice taking place, and he was deeply angered by it. But Jon wasn’t a bastard child any longer. He was a lord, a prince, a favored Southroner among the Wildlings. And if the fond look in Val’s eyes was any indication, he’d taken a Wildling lover or two as well. He spoke to these people who showed her so much disrespect in a pointed way that they could understand. By the scornful look on their faces, the arrow had hit its mark.

 

“You are most welcome here in Winterfell,” she said sweetly, keeping her hands clasped in front of her, forcing herself not to reach out to Ghost for comfort. “You may set up camp wherever you wish, but I do hope you’ll join us in the Hall for supper.”

 

“Looking forward to it,” Tormund dipped a short bow, and shot a sneer in Jon’s direction, “ _Your grace_.” Jon appeared to be amused by this as Tormund straightened and snatched up his horse’s reins and Val snorted, looking pointedly at Jon as if sharing a secret. Sansa didn’t like it. She also knew she had her work cut out for her. But, as she’d so often been told by the men who’d claimed to protect her, she learned quickly. Sansa inhaled steadily as she heard Tormund loudly greet Davos, calling him a _cocky shitting fucker_ as if it were some sort of endearment. She saw Jon shake his head with a wry grin.

 

The Umbers and the Karstarks arrived not too long after. Jon’s greeting toward them was far less familiar and much more stilted. He remained a step behind Sansa this time, saying very little. She wondered at the gesture, considering that he’d just seen them mere weeks ago. They came with their heirs, their hands, their guards and their squires. They came prepared to stay for several days, as was often the custom with these summits. Sansa greeted them with all the due respect to their houses, welcoming them to her home. They greeted each member of her household in turn, acknowledging each one. Jon last of all, wary of Ghost’s presence, and even Sansa nearly shivered at their icy address.

 

“Lord Targaryen,” Harrion Karstark bit out curtly, “I had thought you meant to return to the capital. I did not expect to see you here.” She pursed her lips at the low grumble from Ghost’s chest.

 

“Nor I, you, Lord Karstark, but here we are.” Sansa cleared her throat softly, trying her best not to roll her eyes. There was no love lost between Jon and the Karstarks. She could only guess at the reason why, though it probably had a good deal to do with Harrion’s sister, Alys Thenn, since Jon had admitted that Alys probably declined their invitation to avoid her brother. Harrion Karstark had spent a good deal of the war as prisoner of the Lannisters. Subsequently, he wasn’t apprised of all that had gone on with his family in the North. All he knew was that Robb Stark had taken his father’s head and his bastard brother had given his precious sister to a Wildling Magnor.

 

“Queen Daenerys bid me remain in Winterfell for state’s business. She wishes to stay apprised of the repairs.”

 

Sansa restrained herself from looking over at him, no matter how sharply she wished to cut her gaze. It was one thing to be reserved, it was another to flagrantly lie. Though, it was not as if she wanted her bannermen to be apprised of Jon’s real purpose for remaining in the North indefinitely. Daenerys had been blunt in her letter, so there was no mistaking the “state’s business” Jon wished to discuss. No matter the lengths he’d gone to avoid it, she grumbled silently to herself. She would have been gravely offended had the situation not been so entirely awkward.

 

In true, she wasn’t sure how to broach the subject with him, especially not when she was trying so hard to prove herself a good leader. It was a lot of pressure, living up to his reputation with the Free Folk. They _adored_ Jon. He was their savior, their king, if you listened to the subtext of their speech. During their first visit, they had come expecting to speak with Jon, expecting that he had been given the Throne in the North. _That_ had been an uncomfortable conversation. All of that aside, she had to prove herself, and the Northern lords had given her their swords and their respect easily. 

 

“Your rooms are all ready for you and your men. Please take your leisure and rest,” Sansa intervened as amiably as she could. “We’ll sup in the Hall tonight and discuss our business after luncheon tomorrow.” She turned to beckon her steward and his crew of servants, they came forward to help with their belongings and her Master of Horses and his crew approached their mounts. “Dorin will show you to your chambers.” They thanked her graciously, bowing low and expressing their gratitude for her hospitality.

 

The formality of it all was soothing, she thought as she watched them go, though surely Jon’s interaction with the Free Folk had been more genuine. Arya and Brienne excused themselves to the training yard, while Sam went to give Rickon his lessons, leaving Sansa alone with Jon for the first time in several days. He’d spent so much time patching up walls that it bordered on avoiding her. Still, he offered her his arm and she took it with a small smile. Ghost trailed on the other side of her, silent but seemingly knowledgeable of where she intended to go.

 

“You seem to get on with Tormund quite well,” she noted lightly. He hummed in response. “And _Val_.” At that he chuckled softly.

 

“She and I have something of a… _history_ , if you could call it that.”

 

Sansa laughed, “Did she seduce you in her tent with her pretty eyes and Wilding wine?” She kept her voice light and teasing, but truthfully, the thought made her gut clench a little. Lady Val had always been terse with Sansa, looking too hard at her surroundings, seeing something that Sansa could not. The young winter queen was at a loss to explain it. Perhaps Jon would know.

 

“Fermented goat’s milk,” he corrected with a sudden stiffness she didn’t understand. That happened quite often of late, he would pull back, retreat behind fact and information. She was trying to be patient with his awkwardness, but it was becoming intolerable. “They call our wine grape water. As to your question, not precisely. Stannis offered her to me. Years ago, long before Daenerys set foot in Westeros,” he admitted soberly. Sansa frowned at his tone.

 

“Offered her to you? A…wilding princess?” Several things clicked in her brain. Stannis Baratheon hadn’t known any other Stark still lived. Stannis had wanted a unified North. Stannis had helped to bring the Wildlings South of the Wall. To marry a wildling princess to the bastard son of a dead lord of a great house when his heirs were widely considered dead too…

 

“Aye, you see rightly,” he said caringly, tightening his hold on her arm, “He offered me Winterfell. He was going to legitimize me.”

 

She stopped short, turning to look him in the eye. In his eyes which looked heavy and sad, but still bright with affection that surely was misplaced. Stannis had offered him Winterfell. Daenerys had _given_ it to Sansa. And yet, well…the result was clear. A small smile cracked his face as he secured her arm in his again, patting her hand. He looked up at the castle looming before them, at the walls she held so dear, which must have been just as dear to him. His expression softened at the sight of the house banner bouncing off the wall, long and white with the fearsome gray direwolf snarling back at them.

 

“Winterfell belongs to you. And that’s what I told him. No one had confirmed you were dead, and until I was absolutely certain you were, and Arya and Bran and Rickon, I never would have accepted.” He looked back at her. “I love this place, but it was never mine to hold.” He dropped his gaze with a mordant grin, “Besides, your mother would have risen from the dead to cut my throat while I slept.” She wanted to laugh, she dearly wanted to laugh at his tasteless joke, especially since her lady mother was only newly laid to rest in the family crypt. Laid to rest next to _his_ lady mother. But it wasn’t funny. Not even a little. Winterfell could have been his twice over, and yet here he stood as a guest, treated as a foreigner among his cousin’s bannermen.

 

“It’s your home too,” she whispered, leaning more heavily into his side. “For as long as you want it.” Perhaps it was the sentiment, or perhaps it was because no one was around, that Jon pressed a kiss to the side of her head, an affection he usually reserved for Arya. Sansa dropped her chin to his shoulder, willing the tears back behind her eyes. Crying because of a kindness was silly. Crying because she understood how much Jon loved her was beyond silly. And Sansa had long ago taught herself to stop being silly.

 

Supper wasn’t nearly as wild as she’d expected it to be. The Free Folk were much better behaved under Jon’s glare, which she was appreciative of. She would have been more appreciative if she’d been the one to subdue them that way, but as it was, she still had a lot to learn. Ghost kept to her side, and even retired to sleep with her in her bed with her. Jon didn’t even comment on it, so she accepted his continued warm presence with a smile. They broke their fast separately, though Sansa dined with Rickon, Gilly, and the boys as she always did. Brienne joined them near the end of the meal, informing her that Sam, Davos, and Jon were holed up in Jon’s solar, probably deep in discussion about the meeting later. Sansa was greatly tempted to barge in and interrupt them, but she figured that was petty especially when Jon was so keen on helping her. But it didn’t make her any less nervous.

 

An hour after luncheon, they met in the Hall where Jon escorted her to the seat where her lord father had once sat to hear petitions and receive guests. Sam and Maeor flanked her, as was proper tradition. Jon stood to her right, just behind Sam in front of the Great Hearth with Davos at his side. Brienne stood to the left of the Hall with several of her lieutenants, monitoring the whole situation balefully. Ghost laid under the table at her feet, leaning heavily against her leg.  Chairs had been set out for each party, the Karstarks and the Umbers far outnumbering the Free Folk. Though, the latter didn’t seem overly impressed with the proceedings and didn’t sit. Val was more interested in examining the tapestries than in paying them any attention. Sansa shook it off, deciding to ignore the insolence as best she could. Absently, she brought a hand to the side of her circlet, fingers brushing the winged piece there before inhaling deeply.

 

“Gentlemen, Lady Val and Meralla,” she started, knowing she pronounced the Wildling name perfectly, “I would like to thank you for coming today, the matters we must discuss are of great importance to me and I wish to resolve them quickly. Lord Umber, as you brought your complaint before me a fortnight ago, I would ask you to begin.”

 

So it began.

 

And it didn’t begin well. Lord Umber and Karstark had a long list of complaints, well documented, and were willing to provide witnesses. Tormund and Val merely responded that Free Folk were Free Folk, the pair of them could hardly be considered responsible for every waif and roamer. And they had their own complaints as well.  Plenty of Northmen from the cities south of their territories wandered into Free Folk settlements, behaving just as poorly as the Wildlings that went south into towns. The only difference apparently, was that Wildling women didn’t have any qualms about gelding men that tried to touch them. Several men hadn’t survived. Karstark and Umber took this as their own and added it to the list, obviously unaware that such events had taken place, but happy to adopt them as complaints.

 

Sansa mediated as best she could, but felt it necessary to let them speak their respective pieces without her interruption. Especially Tormund. Every so often, she looked over to Jon and Ser Davos, both who nodded at her encouragingly. It was one small respite, but she couldn’t help but feel she was quickly losing control. But Jon insisted that you couldn’t control a Wildling. So what was she to do? Tormund was getting vile, his mouth running away from him as he shouted accusations many leagues long and years old. He recounted crimes he’d not been born to witness. When she tried to interrupt, to steer them back on course, he shouted over her, telling her he’d _speak as he bloody well pleased_! An idea struck her like a blow to the stomach.

 

“Tormund Giantsbane, you will hold your tongue or I will cut it out of your head!” she snapped, gripping the curves of her armrests tightly. She had to restrain herself, to keep her seat, to at least look like a lady while she got this out. It was necessary. It’s what she had to do. He swaggered forward, leering contemptuously.  The look in his piggish eyes was revolting; it spoke of arrogance and violence and horrible crimes. He’d done this to her plenty of times; tried to stare her down, get her to back off and shut up. It wasn’t going to be tolerated anymore.

 

“I doubt a pretty little lady such as yourself could do a thing like that,” he challenged gruffly. Ghost got to his haunches immediately, teeth bared. So Sansa dropped a hand to his neck, hoping to convey a calm she didn’t feel. The beast snorted and his muzzle relaxed, but he didn’t settle.

 

She sneered at Tormund, “I am certain Lady Brienne would be more than happy to hold you down and my sister more than happy to lend me a blade and the proper instruction,” she shot back.

 

“More than,” Arya chimed in coolly from the shadowy corner where she watched. She liked having a wider view of the room, putting her back in the corner, observing until she was needed. But now she stepped forward, coming to stand in front of her sister’s table, hands behind her back and head cocked like a deranged owl. Sansa wondered if she was deciding where Needle would best fit.

 

“What would a _whelp_ know?” he said nearly spitting at Arya’s feet. Sansa couldn’t see Arya’s reaction, but she could imagine the contempt. 

 

Sansa lifted her chin, “Brienne?”  Immediately everyone was on their feet, her Queensguard grabbed up the Free Folk to subdue them, while others pushed back the Umbers and Karstarks. Brienne pushed forward and effortlessly brought Tormund to his knees, since he was entirely unprepared for the display. Sansa stood, steadily and dispassionately with Ghost following her in tandem, walked around the table, and held out a hand to Arya, who silently slid a jeweled dagger into her palm. It was somewhat heavier than Sansa had expected, but overall, workable. Sansa stepped down from the dais, not breaking eye contact with the furious Wilding, who struggled against Brienne, only to have his head jerked back by his hair, exposing his face and throat to Sansa. Arya and the wolf trailed her two paces behind as she approached.

 

“You never met my lord father, Tormund Giantsbane. But he impressed upon his sons one important lesson. The man to pass the sentence should swing the sword. He used to say that if you cannot look a man in the eyes and hear his last words, then perhaps he doesn’t deserve to die. I am no man, but trust me when I say that I am every inch my father’s daughter. I take my duties quite seriously, so please, _give me the opportunity to prove it_.” The thought of bread and salt briefly crossed her mind. Their laws of hospitality. _Look at what happened to the Freys and the Boltons_ , her brain whispered. Would she do the same? Would she have to kill this man in her own house to gain some respect? And for what? A _Kastark?_ An _Umber_? But a thought niggled out at her, wormed its way into her heart of hearts. _No_ , it whispered, _for Jon_.

 

“Big words from such a little bird,” he gritted out even as he winced at the tightness of Brienne’s grip. He had a lot of courage, she’d give him that. But there was no way Sansa was going to back down. Every coil of her innards bristled at that old moniker, the one Sandor Clegane had given her. The one that mocked her in her weakest moments. But she wasn’t caged any longer.

 

She sneered, dipping her head to peer into his face with all the rancor she could muster. “This _little bird_ would take great pleasure in silencing you. And, I think you will find it difficult to give orders without a tongue in your head. Or would you rather I start with a more _sensitive_ appendage?” She tilted the blade in her hand down to his crotch suggestively with a snarl on her lips. Ghost stood beside her waiting for orders, and she held her position. If she looked away now, all would be lost. If she looked to Jon and saw his disapproval, she would fail. There was a cold silence that swept over the room, while they waited for Tormund’s response. It didn’t come. Not because he wasn’t going to speak, but because Lady Val’s cackles resounded like sharp cracks in the room. The other Wildlings soon joined her, including Tormund still held down and exposed by Brienne.

 

“I like your cousin, Jon Snow!” Val called out, smirking, “I can do business with a woman like that.” Sansa straightened, and nodded at her guards to release the other Wildlings. The Queensguard retreated, but Brienne held Tormund fast.

 

Val pulled up a chair, sliding it to sit directly in front of the seat of the Queen in the North. “All right, Red Wolf,” She gestured, indicating that Sansa should re-take her seat, “Let the blathering fool loose, and let us womenfolk talk business.” Tormund opened his mouth to argue. “Shut up, Tormund, or I’ll aid her in unarming that wormy pecker of yours.”

 

 Sansa met Val’s gaze evenly, took in the sight of her grave gray eyes, which looked upon her with the respect and appreciation she thought she’d never get from the Queen-Beyond-the-Wall. Unhurriedly, Sansa handed the dagger back to her sister, and lifted her heavy skirts to walk back to her seat. Though she’d heard whispers that Ghost had once been very fond of Lady Val, he didn’t linger near her, but followed Sansa’s movements closely. He curled around her legs defensively, as if annoyed by all the moving around. She scratched his snout affectionately and he huffed before dropping his head to his paws. Once situated, Sansa waved off Brienne, who released Tormund by shoving him to the floor, and stomped back over to her mistress. Sansa gestured to the chair, requesting that Val sit, and the Wildling Queen nodded her head and did so. With a deep breath, Sansa cut her gaze to Jon, but she couldn’t quite make out his reaction. However, she was too keyed up and she’d come too far to take stock of anyone else’s opinions. She turned to her bannermen.

 

“Lord Umber, Lord Karstark, please take a seat and we’ll begin negotiating. The Free Folk require proper incentives to stay away from your towns. I recommend you start making suggestions, or I shall make them for you.”

 

It wasn’t easy. The Umbers and Karstarks were deeply mistrustful of the Wildlings, and didn’t seem to understand what in the Seven Kingdoms “savage heathens” would want. Lady Val was rife with ideas. The Free Folk wanted open trade. They wanted to be able to go into towns, if it pleased them, to exchange goods. They had no use for taverns or inns or properties, but they needed food and good boots. They needed cloth and furs and materials for tools. They could offer weapons, they could offer crafts and blankets and cloaks that could withstand deepest winter. They wanted promises that they wouldn’t be attacked. This the lords could agree to, but they wouldn’t tolerate women being snatched from their beds, they wouldn’t tolerate violence in their quiet little towns either.

 

How to handle the solitary Free Men and these isolated incidents was a point of contention. The lords wanted to be able to punish them by their own laws. The Free Folk insisted that their people didn’t know any different, that such laws went against their way. There seemed to be no resolution to this one point. The parties went back and forth, arguing and compromising well into the night. Dorin had food and drink brought in, though it was largely ignored as those around her continued to make their recurring points. Sansa hand fed Ghost slips of meat, quietly attending to the various arguments and silencing the Northmen when they talked over Val. It went much more smoothly now, but they couldn’t seem to meet in the middle, until Sansa came to her final decision.

 

“They will be sent North of the Wall,” she said firmly, interrupting Lord Karstark as he repeated himself for the tenth time. The candles were burning low, in a few short hours it would be the hour of the wolf. They’d gone through these motions so many times that her head was starting to spin. Her judgment was born of frustration and a snap decision.

 

“Beg pardon?” he spluttered, looking dumbstruck. In fact, most of those in front of her looked taken aback. The Wall had been destroyed and taken down in certain places along the border, so that people could pass through as they pleased. There was no more threat from the Others, and most of the Wildlings preferred to travel freely instead of settling in the Gift, especially the Thenns. It was the best option.

 

“Should a Free Man break the laws of the town which he or she enters, he or she will be sent back North of the Wall, banished from the Gift. If they return, especially if they return south of the Gift, they will be subject to harsh punishment up to and including execution, at the discretion of the Free Folk, of course. The Northern lords will punish their people who break the Free Folk’s laws according to the laws of the North.”

 

“And how is a Free Man to know these laws?” Lady Val snapped, raising this same issue once more. There was no simple solution to it. There was no way that the Free Folk would be able to know and understand the minutiae of Southron life and ways. They needed a condensed version, one that could be spoken and passed along to travelers. One with a pointed message that would stick.

 

“A valid point. Lords Umber and Karstark, you will draw up a treatise, outlining those laws which visitors are to keep in your lands. Tormund and Val will meet with their people and draw up their own treatise. Both will be given to me first for my approval, and condensed into one treatise. Once agreed upon by all, those laws will be final.”

 

There was a long pause, longer still because the Umbers and Karstarks stood together talking quietly amongst themselves as they weighed these words. Tormund didn’t look convinced of anything and made low comments to his two lieutenants who eyed him warily, but said nothing. Val looked earnest, but nervous. And that was good. If Sansa had Val, she had the Wildlings. Jon told her repeatedly that Val could convince even the likes of Tormund that something was a good idea. Tormund wasn’t really a leader, he’d told her, but he was experienced and respected among his people. Nevertheless, Val was the true player in all of this. Her word was law to her people.

 

“We need some time to confer,” Lord Umber announced, turning back to the head table.

 

“You have a moon’s turn and no more. We will meet again then.” She turned back to Val and Tormund, “In the meantime, you will do the best you can to keep the Free Folk out of the Southron towns and cities and the Southroners will be kept out of the Gift,” she shot a glance at Lord Umber, who nodded. A Northerner who disobeyed would lose his head. “Perhaps not all will obey, but you will see to it that most do. Be sure to explain that any Free Man discovered outside the Gift within this turn, will be brought here to me to be dealt with.”

 

It was all quickly agreed upon, and everyone retired. Jon put an encouraging hand to Sansa’s shoulder, telling her he would see the Free Folk out to their camp. She nodded wearily, looking to Brienne and Arya who were smiling at her, looking at her with _pride_. Sansa’s belly warmed and she smiled right back.


	7. Chapter 7

As soon as they were clear of the Hall, Tormund put an arm around Jon’s shoulders.

 

“Har! If that stuffy priss talked to me like that eight moons ago, I’d have fallen to me knees from the start! She’s got some Wildling in her, I’ll bet!” Tormund teased, jostling Jon around to make sure he understood the innuendo. Jon scowled.

 

“Careful,” Jon responded lowly, “she’s still my kin.”

 

“And just how does someone as ugly as you have kin pretty as that? Explain that to me.”

 

“You’re an arse, Tormund, even when you’re not in your cups.”

 

Even if Tormund hadn’t spoken much once Val took control of the situation, that wouldn’t always be the case. He would continue to test Sansa’s limits. And her patience. Jon mentally shook his head, wondering where all that viciousness had come from. Sansa wasn’t really the type to make threats. She rarely raised her voice with anyone anymore. Perhaps her tone was snooty and imperious at times, but never truly threatening. For a moment in there, Jon had been convinced she was going to cut out Tormund’s tongue to feed to Ghost. Truthfully, he wouldn’t have even tried to stop her. And that certainly disturbed him. Tormund ruffled his hair, swaggering over to his tent.

 

“Say what you like, Lord Crow! This treating shit might actually _work_.” And that was shocking too. That Tormund thought another treatise between the Northern Lords and the Free Folk would work after the last time. Well, it was downright astonishing. The last time, they’d been forced to hand over the weapons and gold to the Night’s Watch. It was returned when the Night’s Watch was disbanded, but Tormund still sulked about it all. Maybe he was just impressed by the Queen in the North, but Jon thought she might have gotten through to them. He knew she would.  Val lingered.

 

“I have to admit, I had my doubts, but your woman seems to know what she’s doing,” she said with a click of her tongue. That was about the extent Val would go to compliment someone, so he knew she meant it. She was as beautiful as ever, her form still lithe and threatening, the confidence and coolness still brimming. Jon idly wondered if a man had yet to steal her into his bed. Probably not.

 

Jon scowled, “She _does_ and you’d do well to work with her. But she’s not my woman.”

 

Val scoffed, “Tell _her_ that.” Jon made a skeptical face. “Well I’ve eyes and ears haven’t I? Did you think I missed that little display of yours in the yard? Teaching her how to handle Tormund, how to earn his respect? Do you think I miss the way she looks to you? Not for permission, Lord Crow, but for _approval_. The little queen preens under your attentions, my lord.”

 

“We were raised as brother and sister. That is all you see.”

 

“No, I see a woman eager to please. Eager to _impress_. A sister wants her brother’s pride. A woman wants her man’s admiration.”

 

Jon scowled again, irked by her wide array of vision and skill. “My aunt, the Queen in the South, wants us to marry.” He knew his confession would stay between the two of them. Val had no real interest in politics, even less interest in relationships. She had settled in the Gift, but he knew there was no way she didn’t ride North of the Wall just to lose herself in the wilderness. Petty politics of kneelers were of no concern to her unless they threatened her people. The Wildlings were mostly unaware that Sansa was his relative. Ygritte was the one who’d extolled about the wrongness of kin-loving-kin. Val thought that uncleanness showed in the child.

 

She chuckled, “Because you’ve had so much luck in that.” He only scowled, trying not to remind her that he hadn’t taken Stannis up on his offer to begin with. “They say you stole her from a two-talking, kneeling trickster.”

 

“I did not.”

 

“Did you take her from him?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Did you kill him to do it?”

 

He bobbled his head, that was a side effect of revealing Sansa’s identity to the lords, “Yes.”

 

She looked as if she approved. Val wouldn’t have liked Littlefinger in the least. “And she fought you?”

 

“No, she wanted to go home. And as I said, I didn’t steal her. Not in that way. Besides, I would think you would disapprove. Her father was my mother’s brother. She is my kin. Your kind frowns upon that kind of thing.”

 

“It is unclean for a man to bed his sister, yes. The whelps are unclean and sickly. But as you said, she is not your sister. She is your uncle’s daughter. And it is your queen which asks this of you?”

 

“Queen, yes. She is also my aunt.”

 

“It is a tricky thing.”

 

“You are only saying that to spare my feelings, I think. I have seen your people burn men for much less.” She eyed him carefully, her gray eyes boring into him as if looking into his soul.

 

“If you do not marry this woman, what will happen to her?”

 

He shrugged, “She will be forced to marry a stranger. Another stranger. Someone who won’t care for her happiness. Someone who will try to take what rightfully belongs to her. I will probably have to come back and kill him myself.”

 

“She is in true your queen, then?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And what will happen to you when she marries this stranger?”

 

“I will most likely have to return to my aunt in the south. Perhaps to marry. Perhaps not. But I won’t ever be able to come back here to stay. She wouldn’t allow it.”  He knew it deep down that if he left the North now, left it without marrying Sansa or without convincing Daenerys that he could serve her better by Sansa’s side, then he would never see his home again. She would find him a Northern bride and keep him in the Stormlands. That was Davos’ take on it anyway, and Davos had keen insight into kings and queens.

 

“I’ve never known you to heed a kneeler,” she japed. His response was to roll his eyes.

 

“Most kneelers don’t command three dragons.” Val hummed, nodding as she considered this.

 

“We cannot know the gods’ minds, Jon Snow. I have seen you suffer. I have seen you die and return from that death. I have seen you defeat undead warriors with ice and fire. I think, perhaps, that some of the gods’ laws do not apply to men like you. Certainly, no god would wish ill on two people who have lost so much, and whose only desire is to keep their home.” She moved closer to him.

 

“But would you commit to a woman who bore her cousin’s children? Would you follow a woman who warmed her kin’s furs?”

 

She lifted her chin, looking down at him along her nose, “You’re no king, Jon Snow, but you did things that even Mance Rayder could not. Your Lady Sansa does not know the Free Folk, she owes us nothing, and yet she would fight to protect us from her own people. You did the same for us once, and look at the results. It is no pretty thing, leading a people. You do what you never thought you would be capable of. You see things you wish you never had to see. Kin marrying kin seems a trifling thing when you’ve seen a dragon burn down a wall nigh a thousand feet high.”

 

Val examined him for a long moment. She stepped up closer to him, moving in an unvoiced question, her eyes trailing the length of him. But she need not speak for him to recognize the invitation. _I would have married her_ , he thought very, very quietly. Not that she would ever have taken him, not willingly. That seemed to him, a different life altogether. He could hardly remember that day now when he’d asked her if she would ride South with him. He’d been fond of her, thought himself damn near in love with her, and yet, even as she shook her head at him, he could not find a hide nor hair of regret in his body for the life they might have had together. So instead, he put a gentle hand to her shoulder to halt her forward press and he took a decisive step back himself. Val smirked, her pale eyes twinkling in the firelight of his torch, and gave him a salacious wink.

 

“Make your offer Lord Snow, and I’m sure you’ll find her more than willing.” Jon felt a rush of shame and embarrassment of having been drawn into her speech swell and flush down him.

 

“Others take me, you’re a pain. Off with you. Go warm Meralla’s furs.” She gaped at him playfully. He teased her. “I’ve eyes and ears myself, you know.”

 

 

Jon was somewhat annoyed, though hardly surprised to see Sansa pacing the entrance hall awaiting his return. Brienne was nowhere in sight, so the only point in her favor was Ghost’s quiet presence a few paces away. Jon was eternally grateful for Ghost’s strange behavior of late, it meant he could warg into his wolf and catch a quick glimpse of Sansa whenever his anxiety overwhelmed him. After speaking with Val, he’d lingered to speak with Eliad, a man several years his junior who had fought alongside them against the Others those years ago. Eliad had not met the Queen in the North before and was mightily impressed with her, though he admitted that Tormund would be a bear to live with after that display. Jon heartily agreed. Tormund was a proud man; he’d make Sansa’s life a little more difficult than necessary for years to come, even if he did respect her.

 

“You should be abed, your grace,” he said reproachfully, replacing his torch in the holder beside the main door. He extinguished it, avoiding looking her in the eye.

 

“Never mind that. What did they think?” she implored, a hint of begging around the edges of her voice. And just like that, the confident, assured Queen he’d seen in action was gone, vanished from his sight. Before him was the young, self-conscious woman who worried over everyone’s good opinion, who so desperately wanted to do this well. And he caved, reached out for her, his hands coming to the outsides of her shoulders.

 

“They are optimistic. Impressed, too.” With that, she collapsed against him, the air rushing out of her as she let him hold her. He rubbed her back briskly, realizing that he was essentially supporting her weight. “You did well, handled Tormund beautifully.” She snorted, dropping her forehead to his chest.

 

“I really thought I was going to have to do it for a moment. Horrid man.” Jon laughed abortively, amused by her lingering irritation, but his gaze was caught by the glint of her silver circlet against the gleam of her red hair. He was so accustomed to seeing the demure gold piece, the one with the wolves chasing around the crown of her head. He’d not had the opportunity to inspect this silver one. It was a light, wispy thing, which rested on the top of her forehead, dropping back to encircle the crown of her head, and studded with sapphires. The Tarths had sent the raw gems to Winterfell as a gift for Sansa’s coronation. But what drew Jon’s attention were the wolf and crow pieces welded onto the coiled strands. The wolf he expected, but the crow confused him. Jon knew she wore the piece often since his arrival, but he’d never noticed the details before. He must have been too quiet for too long because she pulled back to look up at him, her eyes brighter than the sapphires.

 

“Do you think this will work?” she asked meekly, lips twisted up in torrid hopes. Jon sighed, pushing back her hair where it rested on her shoulder. It was a vague question that could have referred to a number of things. But his answer was the same regardless.

 

“Yes,” he murmured back, “I think it will.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

They still managed not to talk about it. Jon received a raven from King’s Landing, from his aunt, every other week. And he sent one in return the week following, assuring her they were “making progress.” He never explained what he meant by progress. The treatise between the Northmen and the Free Folk was tentative and uneasy, there were still details that would need to be worked out. They would have to learn not to fear one another. They would have to learn to discuss and make amends instead of throwing fists and drawing swords. Complaints were coming less and less often, though there were extenuating circumstances Sansa was forced to contend with. She handled it splendidly, with all the grace and diplomacy she could have mustered up. That Val was taking the northern Queen’s opinion into account was a sure sign of good things to come. The Free Folk followed Val, they would listen to her. Not all, but most in the Gift. Those North of the Wall wanted nothing to do with Southroners, and that suited everyone just fine. And more walls around the castle were up instead of down. So to his mind, they _were_ making progress.

 

He did try. _Once_. Shortly after the Umbers and Karstarks left for home. She had been in the study their father used to utilize for keeping logs and balancing the accounts. Brienne sat with her, using a whetstone to sharpen her sword. Jon had knocked on the door asking if she had a moment. But when he got in the room all the air left him and his brain scrambled for the purpose of his visit. _So beautiful_ , some part of him said, _Robb’s sister! Your sister!_ The other called back louder. He was silent for so long that Sansa grew worried.

 

“Is something wrong, my lord?” she’d asked with no small amount of concern.

 

“I—I—” he’d stammered, not knowing what to say. Then he’d clamped his mouth shut, told her never mind, and left the room immediately. Even as he went, he could hear Sansa ask Brienne what had just happened, if she thought Jon was all right.

 

“Too much time in the capital, mayhaps,” the knight had answered her. “I hear the fumes of Flea Bottom can disturb the mind…” After that, he spent a good deal of time in the training yard taking his frustrations out on the knights. Specifically, Brienne’s knights and guards.

 

Sansa was doing _well_ , he thought, and her self-assurance had him relaxing in her presence.  Quite without his say, something between them had altered or shifted after the council with the Free Folk. He didn’t know how, it was simply different. She didn’t speak to him as if she thought she were going to fail. She didn’t look over her shoulder every moment wanting to know what she should do. She looked to him for his opinion, something to be taken into consideration before she made a decision. Sansa was just so capable. So, so capable that he wanted only to support her, to enforce her decisions should anyone question them. Peevishly, Jon realized that Jorah Mormont probably felt this way with his aunt. Tyrion, too, possibly. But Sansa was still so far removed from him. She kept her thoughts quiet, her expression indecipherable, and everything she seemed to do surprised him, to a point. So he started watching more closely. He paid more attention to her interactions. He dedicated himself to the study, just in an attempt to predict her, to think like her, to understand her reasoning.

 

And gradually, so gradually that he hardly noticed it happening, he began to see beyond the pretty picture she presented to the world. They were subtle things, a shift in her shoulders, a turn of her head at a particular moment, the way her spine straightened into that perfect posture Septa Mordane had drilled into her. He was starting to be able to read her. Not politically, not as a queen, but as a woman.

 

This thought struck him hard one day with her in the library. Bored, he had wandered into the place and found her stitching there. She bristled somewhat at the interruption, possibly because she’d wanted to get away from any company.

 

“It gets stuffy in my chambers,” she explained coolly, “And I like the view of the wood.” She nodded toward the window, the one that looked out in the direction of the King’s Road. _Defensive tactic_ , he immediately thought. She sat with her back to the corner, facing the door and watching the window where some attacker, real or imagined, might bear down on her. Jon had done that too, for a long time after he returned to the living. His own men had killed him. He couldn’t really imagine everything that happened to make her so distrustful. Others take him, he didn’t want to. Instead of pressing, instead of invading her space or leaving her alone (he bloody well couldn’t, not like that, not when she was still so troubled), he’d pulled a book from the shelves. It was standard tome about family history, stories, logs, and records of the Starks that he and Robb had memorized as children. His eyes traced the words fondly, reminiscing more than reading.

 

“Well, Others take me, that’s a rare, pretty picture,” Samwell said jovially, sauntering into the room with a bright smile on his face. Jon blanched, his mind jumping to the first conclusion he could reach. He shot a quick glance at Sansa whose brows were raised but her eyes were lowered to her work. Man and a woman quietly sitting together near a fire near end of the day. It was sickeningly domestic, but mortifying in the light of Sam’s merry, intruding eyes.

 

“You’ve a terrible sense of humor, Maester Tarly,” he grumbled, putting his feet down from where they were propped up on a table. Sam rolled his eyes, setting down his bag of books on the long table.

 

“I meant you. _Reading a book_.”

 

Jon pulled a face defensively, “I read, you prick.” The words were said in jest, which Sam knew all too well, but Sansa, a queen no less, did not. Jon winced, remembering that his dynamic with Winterfell’s Maester was not appreciated by most of the household. He certainly didn’t wish to offend the queen. He shot her an apologetic look, but was stunned to see her slouched over, her shoulders rounded, and not paying them any mind. He didn’t realize Sam was trying to get his attention.

 

“Jon!” Sam snapped impatiently, nearly stamping his foot like a child. That did get Sansa’s attention. She lifted her head querulously, the corners of her lips tugging. It took Jon a long moment to look away from her.

 

“Sam, quit being a hoary twat or I’ll start making you use my titles like everybody else.” Even as Sam bristled and started arguing about Jon and his bloody terrible manners, Jon relaxed his gaze to keep Sansa in view. She wrinkled her nose in amusement, a small puff of air escaping her nose. To test his theory, he shot back a couple more glib comments that worked Sam up to the point of spluttering, and reviewed Sansa’s reaction each time. She relaxed more when his language was relaxed. That was it. That was all. She was more comfortable around people who spoke plainly, and with emotion. It made sense. After years of hearing pretty words even while seeing her nightmares come to life, genuine, relaxed conversation must have seemed a blessing. Such a small, minor thing that would hold no importance to anyone else. Such a small, minor thing that she would probably never own to, let alone realize.

 

“Jon,” Sam complained petulantly, “Have you even listened to anything I’ve said?” Jon whipped his full attention back to his friend, stifling his chuckle at the high color in his cheeks and the way his hands were fisted.

 

“Not a word,” he answered flippantly. Sam looked ready to launch into another lecture, but Jon cut him off. “Is there a reason you’re here? Sansa’s trying to concentrate.” Sam looked fit to explode, a vein popping out on his forehead as his throat clenched in his aggravation. It was mostly funny because Sam rarely got angry or frustrated with anyone.

 

“I am a Maester!” he bellowed. “This is a _library_!”

 

Jon was rewarded for his efforts with Sansa’s unladylike giggles. He smiled to himself until he turned and caught Sam’s incensed glower, and then it dropped away. Maybe he should send a raven to Tyrion asking for a new book?

 

*

 

After that day in the library, he was a man obsessed with his newfound skill. He sought her out more often than not, slowly testing his theories and trying for various reactions. And from it he learned a plethora of information that you never really needed to know about a person. She liked the smell of roses, but she preferred lavender in her baths. She liked having Brienne around when there was more than one man in the room, but seemed to do fine when it was a smaller group. She frowned when she read because she was thinking, not because she didn’t understand. She was an early riser, like he was, and wrote her letters before she broke her fast with Rickon. She preferred stitching certain kinds of fabrics to others and violently misliked silk. She occasionally used it for a piece or two, but always ended up tossing it across the room. She preferred her light wools and rich velvets. He wondered how long it had taken her to make his tunic.

 

Her body language was a treasure trove now that he’d decoded it. Her eye rolls were far more subtle than the way she gripped her armrest when she heard grievances. When she was truly interested, she crossed one leg over the other in an attempt to appear bored. She had a low opinion of Lord Cerwyn but spoke to him the most pleasantly. She didn’t drink wine often. Not because she didn’t like it, she did. But whenever she reached for a glass, she checked herself, as if remembering something important, and she usually put her hands back in her lap. Jon noticed and noticed and noticed.

 

Sam was absolutely incensed with him, thoroughly displeased with his distractedness. Jon often spent time with the Maester, helping with his ledgers or giving advice about certain household members. Often they stood on the battlements, reminiscing about the time they stood watch together on the Wall. Seeing people below instead of trees the size of fleas as far as they eye could see, was jarring, they agreed. But always, always his thoughts wandered to Sansa. Either Sam had guessed him out, or Jon was not nearly as restrained as he believed.

 

“Get out!” Sam would scold, “Quit making a mess of my things, and go bother the queen. _Honestly_!”

 

And Jon found himself unable to resist the call of her company. He would visit her during mealtimes, offer to go on walks with her and brought Ghost along as a buffer. He did offer to teach her to shoot, and her eyes lit up like Wildfire at the suggestion. While she didn’t have much bodily strength yet, she had a good eye and took instruction well. He sometimes sent Sam and her advisors away and helped her sort through her correspondence, taking her directions. Most of it was state business, but there was a large portion that was personal. She wrote to Dany, Tyrion, and Ashsa regularly. She also kept in touch with Lady Waynwood and Lord Royce’s daughter, Myranda. She also wrote to Willas Tyrell, which confused him for a long while until she explained that he was on Petyr Baelish’s shortlist for potential husbands for her. They had met briefly and got along well. She claimed he was a kind, intelligent man, and that it was a true tragedy that no one took him seriously because he hurt his leg once. 

 

The worst bit was going through the letters from men proposing marriage. They came frequently, regularly, from all over the kingdom. Some even came in person, leaning on their hospitality in hopes of winning her over. Jon thought that some of them ought to have been more successful, they brought her flowers and minstrels, complimented her charms and beauty in ways Jon couldn’t begin to think up. They certainly looked attractive enough, one or two were even battle seasoned. He thought that he couldn’t offer things like that. That he would never remember to bring her flowers, or pay her proper compliments like she deserved.

 

Still, there wasn’t even one who captured all of her attention, which Jon only knew because Arya told him. The minstrels were paid famously in hospitality and the flowers were given to her handmaidens. The whole process annoyed Arya to no end, naturally, because she viewed her sister’s potential suitors as threats to her home and safety. She would grumble under her breath to Jon as they listened to these lords and knights and vassals make their fumbling, paltry offers. Davos would kick at the legs of their chairs to get them to be quiet, but Arya would snicker and their guests would flush. Rickon didn’t understand _any_ of it. He would clamber onto Jon’s lap and tug at his furs, asking when the men were leaving so they could go riding. This was more patiently accepted than Arya’s vindictive whispering, but still would trip up the petitioners.

 

“Jon,” he whispered when the Pooles came, “Why does that man keep saying Sansa is pretty and giving her presents?” When Jon whispered back his answer, Rickon frowned deeply. Jon’s chest clenched, thinking the boy looked so much like Robb had at that age, wild curls and all.

 

“But _you_ stole her!” he grumbled back churlishly. “They can’t have her cause you _stole_ her.” Thankfully, his whisper was quiet enough to avoid being heard, but it was enough for Jon to remove him from the hall. He had no desire to explain to the Pooles what _stealing_ meant or why Rickon thought that way.

 

Actually, during these occasions, Jon kept his jaw clenched tightly shut to avoid saying anything vaguely untoward or threatening, knowing the queen would retaliate should he give offense. Sansa was gracious as ever, turning the hopefuls down so gently that they sometimes didn’t know what was happening until Dorin was snootily turning them out of the guest house. Jon decided very quickly that he liked the Dornish steward, especially when he didn’t rat Jon out to his mistress when he saw Jon burning some of the proposal letters. He’d drolly asked if he could find Jon some more flint.

 

After petitions (or more often a long line of marriage proposals) they would go riding together, sometimes with Arya and Rickon, sometimes without. Arya liked to race and she usually taunted Sansa into one go. Arya would resort to snatching Rickon off his mount, promise him heaps of cake if he held on tight, and take off for the castle threatening to stuff the boy with sugar before supper if Sansa didn’t catch them. More often than not, it worked. Those were bright, happy hours, when Jon smiled so much his cheeks would ache.

 

He still liked their quiet rides together best of all. She liked to ride to the fork in the river just beyond the King’s Road before you reached Long Lake. That’s where Father used to take them to swim when the weather warmed tolerably enough. Sansa had always refused to get in the water, while Arya said her blood was ice, the cold didn’t hurt her. Robb was always able to coerce Sansa into getting in, or else he’d carry her in while Jon and Theon laughed and laughed. Eventually they had to retaliate when Bran and Arya got the jump on them while distracted. “For Winterfell!” the little beasts would howl, pretending Jon and Theon were invaders. Theon took to his role with just a little too much gusto, which Jon disapproved of, and so Jon would eventually betray Theon and swear fealty to King Bran. _Can memories haunt a place?_ Sansa told him she could still hear their laughter on the breeze.

 

Other times, he went with her to visit the surrounding villages and towns. Brienne, as Commander of the Queensguard, hated that Sansa held to this old tradition. But Sansa insisted. She said her mother had done it, and her father’s mother before her, all the way back to the very beginnings of Winterfell. To soothe Brienne’s irritation, Jon would ask Davos and the knights to come along with them. They brought stores of food and clothing and supplies to the smaller towns, and Sansa passed everything out herself. She would strong arm Sam and Maesters from surrounding keeps to venture out and tend to the sick and check the health of babes and children. She brought in apothecaries to help treat chronic ailments. She treated them with the respect smallfolk never received from their overlords. She asked the women about their children and the men about their farms, and always inquired if there was more she could do. There were times she would help women in their kitchens by peeling potatoes, or help them do the washing at their wells. Sometimes she even mended clothing as they listed out their complaints to her.

 

And she did hear them. She would bring these issues up with the lords in their correspondence, she would follow through and demand results. Whatever they needed, Sansa found a way to make it happen, even if she couldn’t see to it personally. Lord Cerwyn once laughingly asked if she were going to visit every hovel across the Northern countryside, and her short answer was yes. Not long after her return, she hired eight women onto her staff to travel in pairs in each direction, to get a true feeling for her people’s needs. They came back to her every two turns with fresh complaints and reports of failures or improvements. These were her rumored “little birds” who travelled further and far more quickly than any street child in Flea Bottom. Before her coronation, Sansa had often gone herself with Brienne, just to assess the damages done by Daenerys’ horde. She kept a running list of materials needed, a careful balance of the crown’s expenditures on such materials, she was thrifty but offered as much of her resources as she could and forced her noblemen to do the same.

 

The people loved her. They called her the Red Wolf. They bent their knees and kissed her hems, and she brought them to their feet and asked what else she could do. Her hope, she said, was that one day no one would fear making a request of their lords. She hoped that her willingness and desire to help them recover and flourish would make them open to discussion and aid. Northmen could be so stubborn. Jon found himself fumbling in her wake, trailing after her, playing her servant and assistant, doing whatever she asked, even if it was holding a babe or helping move a broken cart or fix a roof.

 

Brienne found it all terribly amusing, seeing the former Lord Commander and widely acclaimed war hero hold things for her mistress. Horribly embarrassing, actually. All the more so, because she tended to catch the two of them in very domestic-seeming moments. Like when he was holding linens for her while she mended tears. Or when she had to hold onto him to reach a pot in the baker's wife's kitchen. Or when she was pulling his hair back and talking to a bean farmer while he peeled the vegetables for the children's stew. Either Sansa never saw Brienne's expressions in those moments, or she simply didn't think on them. Jon was not so lucky. The knight's smirks and knowing eyes had him flushing and trying to explain things away.

 

There was one particularly dicey situation when one of the villagers was much too forward and made some vile comments about Sansa. Needless to say, while Brienne ignored it, Jon overreacted. He slammed the fool into the side of the tavern, hand at his throat, catching Lucan and Derron’s attention. The two guards quickly closed in, tightening the perimeter around Sansa. Jon, oblivious to this, was so enraged that he didn’t even realize the man’s feet dangled just off the ground. He gasped and begged and thrashed against Jon’s hold as Jon berated him for speaking to his queen that way. Of course, the sod might have apologized had Jon allowed any breath into his lungs. Brienne was amused, but not at all willing to intervene, and neither were Lucan and Derron. Both men followed Jon’s word as law, and if he felt beating a man to death was the proper course of action, they would simply hope the poor bastard had done something wretched enough to deserve it. So Sansa was forced to step in before he strangled the man to death.

 

“Jon,” she’d said firmly, placing a hand on his forearm, “Let him go.” Her voice drew his attention, her touch drained his anger, and he automatically released the offender so that he dropped to his arse in the mud. Sansa’s expression was reproving even as she pulled him away, but Jon didn’t bother with apologies. She wrapped an arm around his, using him to steady her trek through the muddy path and continued to speak evenly of her plans to build a stable. Still, he heard Brienne’s bland drawl behind him.

 

“You must know how these wolves are, ser, unbearably protective of their mates.” And then she tossed him a penny for his troubles. If Sansa heard her Lady Commander’s insolent commentary, she said nothing of it.

 

Brienne's smugness aside, Jon wasn't deterred. He did whatever Sansa asked, went along with any suggested activity. Some of her ideas were absolutely bloody mad, and he told her so. Loudly. But he worked with whoever was available to try and make it happen. Diverting a stream closer to a town outside of Hornwood had sounded ridiculous, but it worked. Horrenton stopped flooding and Moose Hill had enough water to run their mill. Had it taken them a fortnight to dig a new trench and dam the stream? No, somewhat longer, actually, but it _worked._ And all from Sansa's plans. Jon didn’t know when she’d become so capable, so proficient. He didn’t know when she stopped being fussy about staying clean and looking proper.

 

When he asked, he was collapsed on the edge of the new stream, cooling off from several hours of hauling stone. Sansa was actually in the stream, her skirts pinned so they didn't hinder her movement; she was flushed from hauling laundry, her sleeve torn and bodice stained. She was soaking wet and would have to wait until nightfall for her dress to dry. But still, there she was helping wash when she should have been in some pretty drawing room stitching a favor for some handsome cockatoo of a knight who knew more songs than battle maneuvers. Instead, she had a smudge of dirt on her cheek and was being gleefully entertained by bawdy stories from the village girls.

 

"You know...I never asked, but who taught you to do washing? Or to cook, for that matter? And since when are you fine with being wet and dirty?" His voice was so incredulous that he must have caught her completely off guard. She froze mid-movement for just a second, and then continued along slowly with a furrow in her brow.

 

"I know it isn't exactly proper but..."

 

"I was not trying to offend you. I only meant that I've not met another woman who can wear a costly gown and jewels in a castle one day and the next launder a farmer's clothes in a stream."

 

She straightened in the water, wiping her hands on her borrowed apron, and frowned. Her eyes swept off to somewhere he couldn't see, to some unpleasant memory. That happened more often than any of them would have liked. There were times when she went rigid and pale and couldn’t speak of the things troubling her. Jon empathized. Sometimes the world around him dimmed and flashes of darkness and _For the Watch!_ stunned him into frozen shock. In true, he didn’t want to think about the images which plagued her waking memory. Still, she answered.

 

"Cersei Lannister locked herself away in the Red Keep with her beautiful dresses and her jewels and her wine, and she _hated_ everyone. She was miserable. She took food away from people who were starving. She didn't care how many died, so long as she and her precious children were safe. She was cold and unfeeling, and she destroyed half of Flea Bottom with Wildfire because she _didn't care._ She forgot that being queen was more than sitting on a chair, commanding men to die and slapping around servants." She wrung out shirts and breeches and stocking as she spoke, and passed them back to the girls on the bank.

 

“I told myself that if I ever were queen, I would be nothing like Cersei. That I would do whatever it took to make the people love me. In King's Landing, that would have meant kissing orphan children and giving away food to the needy. But this is the North and those are empty gestures—Thank you, Livy, no all of that goes back to Marra. Yes, that's right—" She turned back to Jon with her hands on her hips.

 

"When I first started riding out to the villages, no one would talk to me. They were terrified of complaining or else overburdened with work and hadn’t the time. There was so much rebuilding to do and not enough hands to do it.  If I wanted them to talk to me, I had to offer my assistance. So I learned to make a proper stew and how to get blood, sweat, and dirt out of a wool shirt." She shrugged. "It took some time,” she confessed, “but my people taught me well.”

 

Jon was in awe of her.


	9. Chapter 9

He came to her after a meeting with the chieftains of the mountain clans.

 

Hugo Wull was a fearsomely large man, bigger than even Tormund, but his word and loyalty was without reproach. He had fought alongside Stannis and Jon against the Boltons if only to free Arya, and then again at the Wall. Donnel Flint had taken control of the First Flints after his father Torghen fell at the Wall. He was a serious young man who listened to Sansa’s words with an intensity the other Northern lords didn’t give her. Brandon Norrey sent his son in his stead, also Brandon. She feared Old Brandon wouldn’t last until Winter. Perhaps that would be kinder. Morgan Liddle, whose father, Torren, was slain trying to re-take Winterfell, was the youngest and the least experienced of the chieftains. But he was enthusiastic and willing to cooperate. These men had called her father “The Ned” now they called her “The Red Wolf.” Getting them to agree to all meet in her Hall had taken some doing. They were stubborn, set in their ways. They were _Northmen_. But Winter was coming, and as she had told them in her messages, they could not afford to war among themselves when resources were so scarce. In exchange for their ore, Winterfell was offering grain and vegetables from the South. Sansa’s intention was to build a great shelter outside the castle walls, one that would be available for anyone to use when Winter was finally upon them. The clans would have to come down from their mountains when the white winds began to blow, and she had no intention of leaving them to freeze to death in the snow.

 

The meeting went well, the chieftains were relieved to hear of her plans and more than willing to help provide resources. Sansa had worried that they would see no benefits in such a structure. But they were grateful. They wanted to use the structure to stockpile supplies. They wanted to help build it, and were willing to bring men and timber. It was more than Sansa could have hoped for. Hugo Wull lingered, wanting to discuss details of the timeline for building. Sansa was hoping that with enough ore from the mountain clans and timber from the Glovers, they could finish within the year. They hadn’t the gold to properly pay anyone a decent wage, but she was going to petition the Wolfswood clans for extra men.

 

Sansa liked Lord Wull, she liked his honest and his tenacity. She liked that he reminded her of her father in how he presented his arguments. She liked that he was crass and hard and a little bloodthirsty. She liked that he understood that pride and glory meant nothing compared to the savagery of Winter. She liked that he reminded her of the Hound, but with none of his bitterness. She also liked the way his eyes narrowed at Gawen Glover when he approached them in the courtyard.

 

Gawen was a handsome man, raised Northern with Southron courtesies. Asha had held him and his sister captive for some time at Ten Towers, and his mother came from Oldcastle. He was a boy of the sea, not of the Northern tundra. Arya said he walked the ground like he was walking a ship’s planks. They said he was very close to his sister, but that Robett had married her to Mathis Rowan’s son, Thaddeus, in the Reach. Once upon a time, Gawen would have been Sansa’s ideal knight. He had his mother’s fair hair and his father’s dignified looks. He spoke gracious, pretty words, and had an easy way with women after being surrounded by so many in his childhood. He deferred to his father, was courteous, and was a skilled fighter. He was seven and ten, a year younger than herself. Already he was tall and strong, and the mamas were vying for his hand for their daughters.

 

Once upon a time, Sansa would have blushed and encouraged his attentions when he took a knee and tried to kiss her hand. Like Joffrey and Willas, she would have fancied herself in love, moonstruck by his fineness. But now? Now she was grateful when Lord Wull pushed the boy back by the chest after his short bow when he reached for her hand. The mountain chieftain gave no word of explanation for the protective gesture, just glowered at him until he took a step back.

 

“I—” the boy stammered, looking at Wull with a flash of wariness, “Beg pardon your grace, I was hoping for a private audience with you.”  Sansa smiled, about to make her reply, when she rolled her eyes at the sound of Wull’s scoff.

 

“The Red Wolf must have the Tarth with her at all times.”  Sansa chuckled softly at his adamancy, at the scowl on his face, and laid a gentle hand to his forearm. Like so many of the oversized men in her life, her touch drew his attention with alarming swiftness.

 

“Lady Brienne can follow behind us, Lord Wull.” She smiled sweetly at him. “A queen must always entertain the wishes of her bannermen.” The mountain man didn’t seem overly impressed by this, but her tone must have been enough to appease him. With one last sneer at Gawen, he lifted Sansa’s hand to kiss her signet ring, as was proper, and he gruffly excused himself. He shoved past Gawen, knocking into his shoulder and stomping off to find his kinsmen. Sansa had some idea of Lord Wull’s disdain for Gawen and the Glovers. For one, it was mere rivalry between the clans and Deepwood Motte. It helped nothing that Gawen had spent so much time among the Ironborn. Hugo Wull had a deep hatred for the Greyjoys that not even time and peace treating could wholly displace. Moreover, much like the Free Folk, the mountain and Wolfswood clans were staunchly loyal to Jon. And much like the Free Folk, they were of similar minds when it came to Sansa. It was no secret that Robett was greatly desirous of once more uniting Houses Stark and Glover.

 

“That man is—” Gawen began grumbling bitterly.

 

“A loyal vassal to House Stark, ser, mind your words.”

 

He dipped his head, “Forgive me, your grace, I am simply more accustomed to polite society.” Sansa fought off the urge to scowl. That was hardly minding his words. With a sigh, she turned to find Brienne waiting several paces back. She was speaking to the two other guards in Sansa’s retinue, Lucan and Derron Durwell. They were twin brothers who came from the Manderlys. Both very competent and very intent on keeping a close watch of Sansa. They had come with Jon to the Vale, and coordinated her protection with Brienne ever since. Lucan had been the one to subdue Harry while Jon told him in great detail how everything was going to happen. Derron had been the one to sit at her bedside while the maester tended to her injuries and promised her over and over that no one would ever harm her again. She loved the two of them dearly and was eagerly searching for suitable wives for them. Lucan tapped Brienne’s shoulder, pointing to Sansa to indicate that she had need of them. Sansa merely smiled and beckoned them with her hand, and turned her attention back to Gawen.

 

“You have my attention now, Ser Gawen. What can I do for you?” The moment she began to speak, the mask fell over her features, and she was Alayne again, _stone_. She saw that he had subtly proffered his arm that she might take it, but she pretended not to notice and kept her hands clasped between her sleeves. She looked to her right, a little discomfited that Ghost was not there silently trotting alongside her. They spoke of trivialities and niceties for a short time, and Sansa was willing to entertain his evasiveness. But not for too long. After he complimented her home and beauty for the second time, she asked his purpose in seeking her out.

 

“I was surprised that Lord Targaryen was not in attendance for the meetings today. I had heard he was insistent on being involved in the North’s business,” Gawen said evenly, the lilt in his voice entirely pleasant. Sansa stiffened, shoving the irritation to the pit of her belly where it could hide. Even pleasant sounding words can cut like blades.

 

“I insisted that Jon and his men take a few days for a hunt. They have been very useful to me, putting in long hours to help with repairs, and I thought they could use some sport. But, my cousin is apprised of all that transpires.” She had also insisted that Ghost go with him. The poor beast had been cooped up for too long, he needed to run and hunt and refuel his blood. Still, his absence ached. _Their absence_ , her mind whispered. She was frightened of how dependent she had become. He’d become such a quiet, steadying presence in her life, and so very reassuring to have near. And she wasn’t sure how she would take it when he decided to leave again; she’d hoped that some distance might help get her used to the idea of him being gone. She reached up, her fingers absently brushing along the crow on her circlet.

 

It was a stupid plan.

 

“Is that wise, your grace, to keep him so informed of your plans?” Wordlessly, she snapped her hands back together and turned her gaze on him, not wanting to jump to conclusions, but was still shocked by his impertinence. He went on to explain, “There are whispers from the South regarding his intentions here. I know the Karstarks, your kinsmen, mistrust him deeply. There is fear that the Dragon Queen means to spy and interfere, to keep control of you through him.”

 

Upon first meeting Gawen, Sansa thought that he was near Robb’s age when he was murdered. Then she wondered if the two of them might have a good deal in common, being held prisoner as children far away from home. Slowly, she had come to understand that the Greyjoy’s treatment of the Glover children was significantly different from the Lannister’s treatment of her. Gawen Glover was spoiled and insensitive. He was false humility, superficial charity, and a poor manipulator. Too young, she thought, much too young. Such blunt words from her in King’s Landing would have meant her death under Cersei’s reign of terror. But Sansa would never be Cersei.

 

“Your concern is appreciated, ser,” she answered with vague mildness. Her hope was to be as dismissive as possible without alerting him to her anger. Maeor said it was one of her greatest gifts, her soft rancor and the diplomatic treatment of those she found insufferable. Those she liked the least believed themselves to be her closest friends. Just as well, because she didn’t trust them an ounce.

 

“I worry after your safety first and foremost, your grace. Lord Targaryen has long been in the South, and the Dragon Queen has not always had the North’s best interests at heart. I wonder at the logic of permitting him to linger.”

 

She kept her face blank, “You believe that my cousin, who was raised within these walls as my brother, would betray me in favor of an aunt he has known three short years?”

 

“No offense intended, your grace, but he is not a Stark. He is a Targaryen. Think of what his grandfather did to your uncle, a great man dead before his time.”

 

“You believe that children bear the shame of their predecessors, then?”

 

“Absolutely. The blood is the same. Fruit of the poisoned tree.”

 

She inhaled sharply, stopping short and rounding on him, “So when Joffrey Baratheon declared my father a traitor and murdered him, and Cersei decided as his blood I was an unfit bride but a better prisoner, you would have agreed?” Sansa had never seen someone regret their words so swiftly. His eyes widened, throat tightened as he tried to backtrack, but could only splutter. She silenced him with an impatient hand.

 

“You have gotten ahead of yourself, _ser_. I have no need of counsel from a green boy who knows nothing of the world and even less of my family. Were I a Lannister, your head would already be on a spike in the galley.”

 

“Your grace, I only wanted—!” he supplicated, possibly trying to explain himself. She didn’t allow it.

 

“I know precisely what you want Gawen Glover, because men such as yourself all want the same thing. And you would wait for your rival’s absence before trying to take it.” He flushed crimson, looking absolutely terrified. “I’ll not hear a _word_ of ill spoken against Lord Targaryen. Not from you, not from anyone. He is the reason Winterfell stands today, he is the reason all of the Seven Kingdoms is safe from the Others. He is _here_ because I want him here and Queen _Daenerys_ has been nothing but gracious and good to the North. What you say is insulting and treasonous, and I’ve had men whipped for less.” He again tried to ask for forgiveness and she let out a stilted sneer.

 

“I advise _you_ , boy, to run back to your lord father and pray that my irritation subsides quickly, and that I do not speak of this conversation to him.” As the Glover boy quickly bowed and ran off hastily, Brienne approached to stand at her side. She was smirking at his panicked exit, hand on the pommel of Oathkeeper.

 

“I grow weary of strange men believing they know what is best for me,” Sansa grumbled heatedly.

 

“Lord Snow certainly does not speak to you that way.”

 

“No,” Sansa murmured, a little surprised that Brienne still called Jon by his preferred name, “No he does not.” Lucan and Derron came into step with them, creating a perimeter around her, monitoring people from all sides.

 

“His guard told me in the armory yesterday that he intends to petition for your hand this evening,” Lucan informed her lowly.

 

“Craven rat,” Derron spat, “Steppin’ up when Jon’s gone.”

 

“And Ghost,” Lucan agreed. Brienne scoffed.

 

“I doubt we shall hear from him again,” she said drolly, “Not now that he realizes there is more than one direwolf in Winterfell.” The guards snickered appreciatively, watching the boy’s retreat smugly. Sansa turned to Brienne.

 

“He mentioned the Karstarks’ lack of faith in Jon. I know there is no love lost between him and that house, but it puts me ill at ease. Have we any of their men?”

 

“At least two dozen, your grace.”

 

“When Jon returns, keep close watch of them. And double his guard at night, but keep it quiet. I’ll not have him censure me for undue paranoia.”

 

“Consider it done, your grace.” 

 


	10. Chapter 10

Three days later, Jon and his hunting party rode back into Winterfell. Arya and Rickon were the ones to greet him, as Sansa had gone with her retinue to a nearby village. Just as well, he thought sullenly as he brushed down Greystar, he might have done something incredibly stupid if she’d been the one standing there, waiting for his return. Arya sidled into the stables, laughingly bandying back jibes called out from Jon’s men. Jon was smiling and snorting to himself at her antics that he didn’t notice Sam picking up a curry brush from the hook and starting on the other side of Greystar.

 

“We weren’t expecting you today,” the maester said quietly. “Thought it would be a few more days.”

 

Jon cleared his throat, focusing on a problem spot, “The first few days were fruitful, there was no need to linger.”

 

“I know the queen would have liked to be here to meet you.”

 

“Sam…”

 

“She missed you, is all I am trying to say, Jon.” But Jon blew right past that.

 

“How did the meetings with the chieftains and the Glovers go?”

 

“Well, quite well. We should have more than enough hands and supplies to finish our repairs and start on the shelter within the fortnight. The clans are keen.”

 

“As they should be. It’s a good plan.” He paused, and glanced over to see Sam intently brushing out his horse. Sam’s ease with animals had always surprised Jon, since he was so skittish and awkward around people. Greystar swung his head over and nuzzled the maester’s shoulder, making the man blush and reach into his pockets for a treat. Jon snorted softly, no wonder the horses loved him. “Have the Glovers left, then?”

 

“Yes,” Sam answered stiffly, “Yesterday morn.”

 

“Sam?”

 

“Don’t much like the Glovers, you know.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“I don’t rightly know.”

 

“Tell me true, Sam, else I ask every man in the keep until I get an answer.” The maester let out a heavy sigh and dropped his meaty hand to Greystar’s withers, stroking and soothing. The horse reached around again and he stroked his snout and scratched under his chin.

 

“Then you had best start with Lucan and Derron,” was his elusive response. Something deep in Jon’s gut clenched and roiled at the mention of Sansa’s guards. The Durwell twins did not intervene unless something became physical, their job was to monitor activity around Sansa and let Brienne handle the interpersonal. Sam must have sensed his turmoil.

 

“Oh nothing like tha’, Jon, I promise. But things were…off, in a way. The queen seemed to be on edge before they made for home. She seemed much better today with the clansmen, so I can only assume someone from Lord Glover’s retinue did something to upset her.” Jon took in his words, processing the various scenarios running past his mind’s eye. None of them were pleasant.

 

“What’s your theory, then?” Jon asked, trying desperately to keep his voice steady and stave off panic. If someone had hurt her while he was gone, she would never get him out of her hair again. No matter how much she begged and batted her pretty eyes at him. Jon had only agreed to the hunt because she had been insisting for several weeks. Because she’d used Ghost and their low stores of fresh meat against him. Because he’d do anything if it meant pleasing her. More his shame.

 

“Gawen,” Sam answered shortly. “Lord Robett is a good man. Very fond of the queen and his men wouldn’t dare…you know.”

 

“But his _son_ would?” Jon demanded with no small amount of incredulity.

 

Sam hummed, “Everyone knows Lord Robett was determined for Gawen to marry the queen. He was optimistic that they could make the match during this visit. I thought it might come up during their meetin’s or sometime thereafter…but they left without petitioning.”

 

“Mayhap the cunt approached her in private,” he growled out, thoroughly displeased with the idea. He had to soothe Greystar after grabbing up his hoof just this side of too rough. He nudged the horse’s neck in apology. There were plenty of men who made their petitions privately, but all of them had corresponded with Sansa for some time before coming to meet her. And “private” entailed her three guards and her four lady’s maids. Gilly had very selective hearing and gave Sam full reports of those conversations, which were, of course, virtually indistinguishable from the others. Jon never ceased to be amazed at how forward and confident these petty lordlings were with their queen. Things in Westeros had not changed as much as Daenerys might have hoped.

 

“Possibly, but she has entertained private proposals before.”

 

“I don’t like it.”

 

“Neither do I, but they’ve gone and she seems much better now.” Sam put up his brush and came around to face Jon. “Do you think you will ask her about it?”

 

Jon stiffened, “You think I shouldn’t?”

 

“Gilly’s made no mention of it. And if Gilly doesn’ know…” Then Sansa wanted to keep it private, he finished silently. Jon wasn’t fool enough to believe that Sansa was unaware that he kept tabs on her personal matters through Gilly and Sam. If she deliberately kept something from her valued friend, then he probably shouldn’t press.

 

“What about Brienne?”

 

Sam snorted, “Her ladyship is hardly like to speak to me about tha’.” Also true. Brienne and Sam were quite opposite in nature, Sam all gentle mildness and Brienne fierce valor. They were interrupted by a squire running in saying that Davos was looking for Jon. So they finished putting up Greystar together and Sam accompanied him to find Davos in the rookery. He paced the main room, hand tugging on his beard as he read over a letter in the other. Upon Jon’s entrance, the Onion Knight wordlessly handed it over, sinking to sit on the extended windowsill.

 

Six moon’s turns had passed since Sansa put her seal of approval on the treatise between the Northern Lords and the Free Folk, and in all that time, Jon never once broached the subject of her marrying. He was certain that he could have spent the rest of his life not discussing it. Arya scowled and called him craven, and maybe that was true. But as his aunt’s letters grew increasingly impatient, he had found himself growing impatient. This particular letter, however, is what broke his resolve. The Dragon Queen wasn’t as unquestioning as he was led to believe. Jorah’s scrawl explained his concerns, addressed to Davos, about Jon’s true progress.

 

“If she’s spoken to Mormont,” Seaworth said reluctantly, “then you know she’s concerned. Especially if what he says here is true. Won’t do you any good putting it off any longer.” Jon sighed heavily, eyes drifting over the words lazily. He had no use for Jorah Mormont’s questions and concerns. But Davos was right; the Commander’s involvement could only spell disaster if Jon didn’t step-to. The last thing he needed was Dany sending Tyrion north to mediate, or worse, to offer his hand to Sansa. Jon gave the letter to Sam to read, and the maester’s brows shot right up.

 

“The queen should know that part,” Sam insisted, “Especially if she agrees. But Ser Jorah doesn’t say if this has been confirmed by a maester.”

 

“You should disclose it in your proposal,” Davos agreed. Then he grinned wryly, “If you ever choose to make it.” Jon rolled his eyes with a sigh and went to stand by the window. It overlooked the path to the King’s Road, the path the ravens often followed. He’d been hoping for more time, hoping to delay it until after the Harvest at least. Or after the shelter was complete. Maybe not even until it was officially Winter. Buggering hell, Arya was right, he _was_ craven.

 

“She’s not had this for long,” Jon admitted to his friends grudgingly, “She’s doing well. She’s sure of herself. Putting me next to her, calling me King, it takes something from her.” That had always been his opinion. Sansa didn’t need a husband, she didn’t need a king. All she needed was an heir. Not that they could entrust that to Arya entirely.

 

The Onion Knight shrugged broadly, “So don’t call yourself King. Call yourself Consort.”

 

“Daenerys won’t like it,” he grumbled, tossing Jorah’s letter to the table beside them. Davos scoffed.

 

“What should she care?” Sam asked ironically. “What would a Dragon Queen know of the North?”

 

“I suppose I don’t have much of a choice, then, do I?” Not that he ever did.

 

“No, no you don’t,” Davos agreed. “Because I know for a fact that Willas Tyrell is the next name on that list.”

 

Jon grimaced, “A bastard brother-cousin, a dwarf, and a cripple. You’d think her grace was doing it on purpose.”

 

“Oh, I imagine she is. Either for her benefit, or yours.”

 

*

 

Davos Seaworth’s words rang in his ears as Jon walked the castle the next day. He’d been there to greet Sansa and her retinue when they returned, if only to ensure that her person was well. She’d smiled brilliantly at him and kissed his cheek, which had him relaxing like he hadn’t been capable of in days. Then he’d retired to his chambers for the evening, refusing supper. The morning found him wandering out to the wood, to the creek where they’d played as children, and then up into the battlements, pacing north and south, north then south. Approach after approach entered his mind and each was quickly and viciously discarded. There was simply no way to present his offer that would be attractive enough for her. Worthy enough. Seven hells, she deserved more than some idiot bastard with no basic courtesies. He knew Sansa would be checking in on Rickon’s lesson or else in her solar reading the newest batch of letters. That’s where she always was after luncheon. But he couldn’t bring himself to walk there. He paced the length of the Great Keep several times and only worked up the nerve when he noticed that the sun would soon begin to fall in the sky and supper would be served. He didn’t think he could stomach waiting until after. He certainly couldn’t face Sam until he’d done it, considering he’d already confided his plans in the Maester. Bloody Sam and his bloody honest face. He could be such a cunt when Jon was making a fool of himself.

 

Without giving himself a second to reconsider, Jon took off quickly in the direction of her chambers, willing himself to keep moving until he reached her door. As always, he knocked and waited for permission before entering. He opened the door to find her working on her stitching, while Brienne held various ribbons and threads as she read her correspondence aloud. Gilly was mending a pile of clothing, humming to little Sam and Mance who were curled up on furs together at her feet. Ghost was there too, spread out behind Sansa’s chair. He lifted his big, white head when Jon entered.

 

“There you are,” Jon chastised, with a click of his tongue, “You ought to be hunting, you lazy oaf.” Ghost only huffed and lowered his head, making Sansa laugh and the others smile and shake their heads. They went back to their tasks, but Sansa watched him curiously, silently asking him what brought him by.

 

“Your grace, would you accompany me to the godswood?” he asked as evenly as he could. “There are some matters I’d discuss with you.” He flicked his gaze to Brienne meaningfully, “In private.”

 

She blinked, and he swore the edges of her cheeks pinked slightly. “Of course,” her voice was light and airy, ever the actress, his cousin. “Brienne, would you mind discussing with Dorin that issue we spoke of earlier? We shall take Ghost with us.” The Lady Knight lifted her head, eyeing Jon suspiciously, making him fidget even though he was a fully grown man and a royal advisor who had every right to request a private audience with the queen. Still.

 

“Consider it done, your grace,” she said stiffly, lowering her eyes back to the letter in front of her and finished reading. As she did so, Sansa collected up her materials, vocalizing what her response might be, and set them aside in a trunk engraved with the Tully sigil. It had rivers and fish and tangled vines, beautiful trees and ferns that you could find all throughout the Riverlands. It must have been a wedding gift to Catelyn Stark before she’d left home for Winterfell. She was quickly ready, with Gilly rushing over to place her cloak on her shoulders. As Sansa reached to take his arm, Jon whistled for Ghost, who bounded up from his spot and through the door to walk in front of them.

 

Their walk to the godswood together was a common one. Not many in the castle still prayed to the Old gods except the two of them. Brienne usually insisted on accompanying Sansa anywhere outside the Great Keep, but would relent if both Jon and his direwolf went in her stead. Ghost’s reputation among the smallfolk and Wildlings alike was possibly more fearsome than Jon’s. They trudged silently through the snow together, occasionally laughing at Ghost’s antics. He was hyper, leaping out at the diminishing snow drifts, pouncing on imaginary prey. Despite his recent excursion, he would need a good hunt soon before another storm swept through. Jon had noticed his improved demeanor since they’d returned North. He was less anxious, more playful, more active. He cheerfully accompanied him and Rickon when they went riding, wrestled with Arya and her hounds in the yard, and most days would end up curled by Sansa’s feet until Jon called him away so she could retire. He stayed close to the Starks’ sides, protecting them as if he knew he was the last of their direwolves. Jon wondered if it was an idea he’d gleaned himself, or a behavior learned from Jon. 

 

“How did your meetings go?” he asked as they walked. She chattered about the gritty details of the negotiations with ease, making her commentary as she went along. Her summaries were much more enlightening than the ravens Sam had sent, and far more entertaining too. She was cheerful and optimistic, and there was no trace of the strangeness Sam had mentioned. Jon decided not to mention it. If she were truly concerned about something, she would come to him in time. Until then, he just had to trust that she knew what she was doing. Because she did. And Jon wanted to trust her. But ever still lived in him the impulse to shield her, to fix things for her. She’d had so little of that since their father died.

 

When they reached the godswood, Ghost shot off through the trees, disappearing through the tunnel Jon knew he’d made somewhere. Eventually, he was going to have to close it up. Sansa cried out for him to come back, but Jon dismissed it immediately. The wolf was more accustomed to the freedom of the Haunted Forest than he was to the structured limits of the South. Near a sennight of open space had roughened his spirits again, Ghost needed a good solitary run. He soothed the queen’s worries by promising to warg into him if it grew too late, and handed her over so she could sit on the roots of the heart tree. Jon knew she rarely prayed anymore, but that the godswood had become a place of respite for her during her long years isolated from the people who loved her. He thought perhaps that comfort would work in his favor now that he was asking her for something he swore he’d never ask.

 

Sansa was a bright blur in the homey darkness of the godswood, her hair like fire compared to the dark blood red of the heart tree’s leaves. The pool was black to the bottom, but her eyes looked deeper and shone brighter in the streaks of sunlight. Not even the somber gray of her cloak could dampen her. He paced, knowing she watched, feeling far too warm under his cloak despite the chill in the air. His long few years in the South hadn’t displaced the ice of Castle Black from his bones. Winter was always in him, it seemed.

 

“Jon,” she sighed after a while. “Will you stop brooding and just look at me a moment?” He scowled, kicking at a small drift of snow.

 

“No,” he answered tersely. It was the only thing keeping him sane.

 

“Well if you honestly believe that I don’t know what this is all about, then you are the fool Brienne takes you for.” And that _did_ get his attention. Not the part that Brienne thought he was a fool, that was a given usually, but that she knew and she’d discussed it with the woman. Had they all been pretending for his sake? Probably, he thought with a frown, because Sansa was ever dutiful and would do what was necessary to survive while Jon had always been squeamish about the more unsavory details of leadership. Sansa would always do what she must to protect herself and her family, no matter what the cost, and that was precisely what made his gut roil at the unfairness of it all. With a heavy sigh, he dropped his head and clasped his hands behind his back.

 

“I would have put it off for as long as I could, if she were not so persistent.”

 

There was a smile in her voice, “I would say that was a grave miscalculation on your part, as her persistence is what gained her the Iron Throne.” Jon laughed through his nose, lifting his head to shake it at her. That she could be so calm about it was such a strange and amazing thing. But when he looked at her, all he could see was resigned amusement. _Life is not a song_ , she’d often said over the course of his stay. And no, it wasn’t. Pretty words set to pretty tunes did not begin to tell of the pain and heartache that came from war and times of peril. Those great knights were more concerned with the look of their mount and the favors from their ladies, not who would deliver the killing blow, not if they would be raised from the dead as unclean warriors in a demon’s war against humanity. Those songs didn’t tell of young girls passed around from man to man, whoever was the highest bidder, as a pawn in a game so foul that it burned his throat to think of it. Those songs didn’t tell of the bitter choices a body had to make between two evils.

 

“She wants me to convince you that I am your best option. She wants me to woo you, give her heirs.”

 

“Give _her_ heirs?”

 

He nodded slowly, “If Jorah is to be believed, and I do believe him, there is a good chance Daenerys is barren. Aegon could give her a Targaryen heir, but…” he trailed off, a little sickened to be discussing it.

 

“But she wants a Stark. She wants a Stark with a Targaryen name.” Jon nodded again. She was far more astute than people gave her credit for. The Targaryen name would lend the child a strong claim, and the Stark blood would make it healthy. Madness lived in the Targaryen blood, often intertwined with greatness. But as the stories said, it was a mere flip of the coin. Daenerys’ parents had been siblings, her grandparents had been siblings, and if you believed Jorah, and Jon did, her brother Viserys had proven the likelihood of another mad king should the tradition continue. It complicated this thing between them further. Their first son would be sent to King’s Landing as soon as he was old enough to travel. This would happen no matter who Jon chose to marry, but, as Jon had long suspected, Daenerys played a much longer game. She wanted a Stark heir with a Targaryen name to endear the North to her.  If she wasn’t barren, and she had a daughter, then all the better for her. His thoughts were broken up by Sansa’s sharp, hollow laugh.

 

“Oh Jon,” she breathed, “When in Seven hells did our lives become so complicated?”

 

He chuckled, bringing his hands to his hips, “Right about the time your father realized Robert’s children were Lannisters, I expect.”

 

“Don’t say it like that,” she whispered, looking down at her hands, “Talk about him like he was never your father too.” Jon didn’t know what to say, he didn’t know how to respond. In his head, he always referred to Ned Stark as “Father,” but someone was always listening to him speak, always waiting for him to trip up. How often had Dany and Aegon and Jorah corrected him in the capital? How often had Tyrion looked on him with something akin to pity and understanding?

 

“It was all so simple once,” she said wistfully, looking out over the stillness of the pond, her hands clasped in her lap. “You took the Black and I was going to marry Joffrey and be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” She met his gaze again, fond but sad, “I was a lady and you were a bastard and we just did as we were told.” Her words cut through him, thoroughly gutted him. Sansa would have married that little cunt if their father had never intervened. Jon would have continued to be steward to the Lord Commander had Uncle Benjen never gone missing, had the Wildings never captured him, had he never met Ygritte. Life made fools of them all, he supposed.

 

“Are we to do so again?” she asked gently, the sadness clear in her voice.

 

He took a step toward her, “Not if you don’t want.” She startled.

 

“If _I_ want? What about what _you_ want? You could return to the capital, have any wife of your choosing, a wife who would…who isn’t…”

 

“ _Sansa_ ,” he rasped out pathetically. But she pushed through, tears welling.

 

“And you could be near the son she claims. You could be close to him and raise him as your own without having to compromise. Knowing all of that, why would you stay _here_?” 

 

By this point, he was kneeling at her feet, taking her hands in his, struggling to find a way to comfort her. She looked raw and desperate and small in a way he hadn’t seen since the Eyrie. Not since Petyr Baelish had tried to convince the lords of the Vale that she was just a bastard, just Alayne Stone and not at all worth the fuss. Jon still felt the rush of satisfaction from taking his head.

 

“I don’t want to return to King’s Landing,” he admitted fervidly. “I want to stay here. At Winterfell. With you and Arya and Rickon. I don’t want a Southron bride. And I’ll be thrice damned before I let her give you back to the Lannisters or Tyrells. If we do this, if we marry, we’ll send her a babe. But I’d give you a dozen more to mend the hole it would rend in your heart.” Tears were welling in her eyes. She disentangled one hand to bring it to his face, a finger brushing the lines of his cheekbone as Rickon’s had when he first arrived.

 

“Sometimes you look so much like Father it’s like seeing a ghost,” she whispered. “There were days when I couldn’t remember his face. And when you came for me, standing there with Arya, I thought you were my prayers come to life.”

 

“I’d give him back to you if I could,” he said, leaning into the palm of her hand as her thumb brushed the beard on his jaw. She offered him a watery smile.

 

“You were a different prayer.” The hand he held gripped him tighter. “I would think of you, you know. When I was trying to remind myself that I was a bastard and not Sansa Stark. I would tell myself I was just like Jon, a bastard like Jon. It made me sad, and I’d sit in the godswood, and make myself think about all of the horrible things I ever said to you.”

 

“Not very good at being Alayne, then,” he japed quietly. She smiled again and shook her head.

 

“No, but he thought I was. That was all that mattered.” She lifted her hand again, bringing it down the side of his face. “When you came for me, you gave me Father back again for just a moment. And then I was frightened, because I knew you were going to _him_. It made me sick to think of him near you, you who would remind him of everything he despised. I was terrified. I wanted you to turn around and leave me there and never look back.” She patted his cheek once more, “You are more a Stark than I ever was.”

 

“That’s not true.”

 

“But it is. I changed my name. I was a Lannister, a Stone, a Hardyng. I was no one. But you never let them change your name. Even now, I see the way you cringe when they call you Targaryen. A Stark never changes his colors.”

 

“Is that why you were so angry with me at Ironoaks? Because you thought I let her change me?”  Sansa nodded, her hand pushing back to work through his curls. He submitted to her ministrations silently, watching her avoid his gaze.

 

“I couldn’t stand it. You who looked so much like my father wearing someone else’s colors. Someone else’s sigil. I thought I might die.”

 

“Aegon insists. I think he worries I’ll try to kill him for our aunt’s hand.”

 

“Does he know you never wanted to be king?” she asked gently as she twisted a curl around her finger. This was not something that she’d done before. This closeness, this intimacy. She let him take her hand and her arm, help her from her palfrey, let him escort her. She hugged him occasionally, when her emotions got away from her. But never this. Beyond a few brief, pragmatic touches to his hand or arm, Sansa never touched him. And gods, he hated himself a little for loving it. Felt sick to his stomach as the blood pounded in his ears. This woman had been his sister. His _brother’s_ sister. The daughter of the man who’d raised him as his own. It felt a little like betrayal.

 

“No,” he gritted out. “It’s not a thing you say in the dragon’s den.”

 

“And yet you would stay here with me.” He felt her breath on his face, her nails on his scalp. “Even if I wouldn’t take you? Even if I never gave you a place on my council?” She only asked because she knew the answer already, he realized. Even if he was struggling with this _thing_ burgeoning up between them, she understood it differently somehow. The Lannisters and Baelish had made her submissive, made her accept things she would never choose for herself. But Jon couldn’t make himself do that to her. Not ever. If she asked, he would marry her and never bed her, never approach her as a husband did a wife. She could take a lover, if she liked. He would readily claim her bastards as his children. He wanted her safe. He wanted all of them protected. His desire to do so was so great that he nearly gagged on it.

 

“I’d serve in the kitchens if that’s what you asked. I was a steward once, you know.”

 

She smiled, her gaze dropping down to his, “Don’t tell Dorin, he’ll become wildly paranoid.”

 

They laughed together. “Where did you even find a Dornish steward?”

 

She chuckled, “I don’t know. Daenerys sent him to me, said he was _wonderful_.”

 

“He is wonderful. I just don’t know how he stands the cold.”

 

“He claims he has no heart to warm,” she japed with a wider smile. “I think his masters in Dorne were cruel to him. I think he wanted to go as far away as possible.”

 

“I understand the sentiment.”

 

She sighed, dropping her hands back to her lap, “Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle, I suppose.”

 

He tilted his head, “Where did you hear that?”

 

She waved it off, “Arya keeps saying it, though I don’t know why. Must be stuck in my head now.”

 

“Braavos addled her brains, I think.” She hummed her agreement. He swallowed thickly.

 

“Do you think this is wrong?” she asked shakily. “Father raised me your sister. Would you—would you find it…distasteful?”  She sounded small, like she had as a little girl and Robb teased her for being a stuck-up priss. Like she had whenever Arya mocked her or made her look stupid. Like she did whenever she apologized to her lady mother for losing her temper and behaving like anything less than a perfect lady.

 

“Firstly, there is not an ounce or an inch of you that could ever even come close to being called _distasteful_. Don’t be stupid.” She scoffed. “But, in true, I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s wrong or right.” he confessed readily with a small shake of his head, “I don’t know much of anything if you ask some people. All I want is your happiness. Whatever form that may take.” He said it, looking her square in the eye, hoping she understood the lengths he would go to. “But…can I ask you a question?”

 

“You may ask whatever you wish.”

 

“Sansa, why is there a crow on that circlet you wear?” Immediately her face closed off and her spine straightened. She looked like a wolf on the hunt, waiting for the tell-tale sign of prey lurking nearby. It was that sign he always looked for, the mark of her discomfort. _A girl with a steel spine cannot cry_.

 

“Which circlet?” she asked dumbly, her expression giving nothing away. He tilted his head.

 

“The silver one with the Tarth sapphires. There was a wolf and a crow.” He wanted to keep pressing, to know more so he could understand it, because it had bothered him for some time. Still he couldn’t force himself to ask what he so desperately wanted to ask.

 

Sansa frowned, “Sam told me that the Wildlings called the Night’s Watchmen crows. He said—he told me that sometimes, in jest, the Wildlings would call you Lord Crow. Tormund called you that.”

 

He nodded slightly, “Aye, all of that is true. Some also called me Ser Kneeler.” And a dozen other things not suitable for a lady’s ears.

 

“That’s how she called me. Val, I mean, when she first came to Winterfell. She called me Lady Crow.”

 

“ _Val_ called you that. _Graddakh!_ ” his aunt’s favorite Dothraki curse slipped out. “That woman is insolent.” He shook off his irritation at the glaringly obvious presumption. “But why in Seven Kingdoms would you put one on your circlet?”

 

With a shy smile, she reached into the folds of her bodice and pulled out a handkerchief. Knights carried them around all of the time in King’s Landing, especially the younger ones. They would brag after tourneys or in the yard about the pretty ladies who’d handed them over. Most like it were white, and would have something delicate stitched around the borders, something small to frame it, usually a sigil or flowers or initials. But this was dyed blood red, and on it was a gray direwolf and a white dragon touching snouts in the middle. Behind them loomed a black crow, the point of its beak centered with the other two and its wings spread wide, poised to take flight. She handed it to him, and Jon took it, somewhat dazed and more than baffled at her talent. And still, Sansa looked at him as if he were an idiot boy.

 

“Don’t you remember the story? The one Old Nan used to tell us to scare us? About the Night’s King?” Jon blinked at her, remembering it very well. And not just because of Old Nan either. _We Free Folk have our stories, too._ _About how one of your King Crows found something…cold in the woods, with bright blue eyes._ “She used to tell Bran that the Night’s King was a Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and that he was a Stark, and that he was defeated by his brother, the King in the North. And then _you_ a Stark, and a Lord Commander, went and defeated the White Walkers he served with dragons. It sounds like a song, does it not?” Her bright blue eyes were twinkling at him, shining with some unshared knowledge he didn’t understand. She reached out and fingered the handkerchief still held tightly in his hands with a small smile. “I was going to put a dragon on it too, but even Brienne said that was too on the nose.”

 

“Brienne?” he spluttered out. “What—?” He sunk back on his heels, looking up at her and perfectly able to ignore the wetness on his knees. “Do you mean to say it’s supposed to be me?” She nodded, smile still fixed. “Sansa, I don’t—” She stopped him by pressing the pads of her fingers to his mouth.

 

“You’ve done so much, so many great things. Why shouldn’t I be proud to claim you?” His moan was damn near a whimper. “I thought about it sometimes…what would happen to you when I took back Winterfell. Because I always intended to, even if it was as a Baelish.”

 

“Like _hell_.”

 

She censured him with a raise of her brow, “I thought, at the very least, you should have your own house. A sigil of your own. But you were already so many things. A Stark, a Crow, and then a Targaryen.” She tugged on the handkerchief, “I’d started something like this back in the Vale, the crow and the wolf. For you, even if you did stay with the Watch, But when I got home…I dyed another bolt red and started over. So I suppose…when Val came and called me _Lady Crow_ , I just—It just made sense.”

 

“You’re not a crow, Sansa.”

 

“No, but you are. And the Wildlings think Winterfell belongs to you.”

 

“I never told them that.”

 

She smiled, “All the same. The first thing they did when they came to meet me was ask where you were. They assumed I was your wife.”

 

“Explains Tormund,” he grumbled looking down at the handkerchief between them. His head was spinning, still not really understanding her reasoning. He couldn’t work his way through her logic of wearing something that symbolized him.

 

“Well at first the idea was…odd. But I started thinking…and at the coronation you were so—” She broke off at a loss for words as she looked at him, her head shaking infinitesimally.  She hung her head, picking at a thread from her cloak. “Then Daenerys sent that letter and she wasn’t exactly subtle about what she wanted. And then _your_ letter…I just—” She lifted her gaze back to him and shrugged. He hadn’t seen her do that since she was a little girl, before the septa told her it was vulgar for a lady. “I feel _safe_ with you,” she said weakly, her voice barely discernable. “And I know I could take care of you, and that I would be a good wife to you if you wanted. But I thought…I thought that if you _didn’t_ then at least…well, at least I’d have some of you with me.” She picked at her fingers, “Like a reminder.”

 

“Sansa,” Jon whispered, clasping his hands over hers, crushing the handkerchief in his grasp. “You don’t have to marry me to keep me.”

 

“But I do _want_ to marry you.”

 

And that’s what broke him.

 

“You—you shouldn’t _want_ me.”

 

“Because of Father?”

 

“Because of _you_. You should want a man who brings you flowers and says nice things to you. You should want someone who’s gentle and good and not some broken thing brought back from the dead for someone else’s war.” She made a mournful sound and bent to kiss his hands, looking absolutely miserable.

 

“You are—such an idiot,” she informed him regretfully, eyes shining with tears. “What do I care about flowers when you would build me a river?” He grimaced, trying to hide his discomfort with her praise. Backhanded as it was. “What need do I have for empty compliments when you always tell me when I am wrong and should do better?” He opened his mouth to protest, but she pushed through. “Men who have been gentle with me have treated me like some empty-headed porcelain doll who does not understand the first thing of the world. You talk to me like an equal, and yes, maybe you hold my hand and growl at other men like a rabid dog,” he barked a laugh, making her smile, “But you don’t second guess my decisions or make me feel stupid.”

 

“You’re _not_ stupid,” he interrupted gruffly. She only squeezed his hands.

 

“And you’re not broken, Jon.” Her voice dropped into a whisper, and she stared down at their clasped hands. “Sometimes I think she must have brought you back just for me. That Dany and Aegon are the legends in that tale, and the Red Woman gave you back your life just so you could find me. Teach me how to breathe again.” She pulled at his hands and pressed her forehead to his. “I need you here. I cannot do any of this without you.”

 

He ground his forehead against hers, “Yes, you could,” he argued. “But you don’t have to.”    

 

When she met his eyes again, looking flushed and uncomfortable, he leaned up and pressed the lightest of kisses against her lips. Just the once, as a question. A tentative request for permission. He felt her sharp inhalation and the way she held it for several beats, staring. Then she pulled her hands from his and he was almost certain she was going to get up and get away from him. That would have been the proper thing to do. That’s what her septa had probably taught her to do. But then her slender hands were cupping his face and she was pressing forward, layering kiss after kiss.

 

It took him a long moment to respond, and then he pitched up, an arm going around her back slowly. He slanted his mouth over hers, drinking down the sweet taste of her, melting from her heat. Ice was in his bones, certainly, but Sansa was kissed by fire. She ran hot, she scorched him somewhere Dany’s dragons couldn’t reach. He clamped that arm around her, and brought them steadily to their feet. He had a hand in her hair, fingers threaded through her tresses to cup her head and angle her as he licked into her mouth. Her gasps made him shudder like an untried boy.

 

“Please don’t leave,” she pleaded against his lips, “Don’t leave me alone.” He took her upper lip between his, offering his lower, pressing and holding for a long moment so that they were anchored there together.

 

“I won’t,” he vowed softly, “Not until my last breath.”

 


	11. Chapter 11

_Clank_! _Shhhlick!_ Jon barely managed to deflect Arya’s lightning fast strike, and he had to take a step back to breathe and get his head on straight. They were sparring in the yard, and usually they were somewhat evenly matched. Maybe she didn’t have his size or his strength, but she moved like a shadow, always quick and always one step ahead. Silent as a crypt. Arya’s bolstered skill in swordplay had shocked him somewhat when they returned.  She had merely shrugged it off, claiming a Braavosi had taught her. But the words were stilted and her eyes were distant, so Jon didn’t know what to think.

 

“You’re distracted, brother,” she larked as they circled one another. She tossed her tawny braid over her shoulder, letting it fall down her back as she smirked at him. Her hair was much longer now, and her attire more form-fitting and feminine. Not so dissimilar to how the Free Folk dressed. But in all likelihood, she could have whupped his arse in a gown and slippers. She was fast, light on her feet and patient. They came quickly back together, cutting and parrying, swinging and deflecting.

 

 _Distracted_ didn’t quite cover it, he thought. He was completely incapable of focusing for even the shortest time. He couldn’t stop thinking about the shape of Sansa in his arms. How warm and slender and soft, the way she sought to mold around him, how her smiles reached her eyes more and more often. What’s worse, he knew he could have _more_ if only they could overcome his guilt and the strangeness between them. Just what _more_ could entail was what preoccupied him. His mind was so consumed elsewhere, and he immediately regretted agreeing to spar with his sister-cousin in such a state. They clashed again and pulled apart, levelling their blades at one another.

 

“Why is it _little_ sister that you never fight me blindfolded like the others?” he shot back, trying to distract her from his handicap. From her leer, it obviously wasn’t working well.

 

“Mayhap I just like putting you on your arse,” she laughed before she lunged in again. He chuckled, deflecting her and maneuvering around to avoid her ploy, the one which worked so well on so many of her opponents. Too bad he recognized it. He cut quickly to the side, using her speed against her, put a foot neatly behind hers and shoved. She landed with a _thunk_ and an _oof_ on her arse in the dirt. There were a couple of cheers which went up from nearby onlookers. Besting Arya Stark was no small thing anymore. Huffily, she blew some wayward strands of hair from her face and glared up at him from where she rested on her elbows.

 

“That’s _cheating_ ,” she grumbled. Jon stood over her, hands on his hips and no sympathy to be found.

 

“And using that dirty trick I taught you against me isn’t?”

 

Arya tried valiantly to maintain her scowl, but she broke, letting out a braying laugh. As all was forgiven, Jon sheathed Longclaw and offered her a hand to help her to her feet. She did so with a jump, landing on the balls of her feet and bouncing to shake out her legs. Anymore, Jon figured she was more cat than girl. Small wonder men like Grey Worm and Jorah enjoyed training with her.

 

“You know, a First Sword of Braavos once told me that if you are with your troubles when fighting happens, more trouble for you. What troubles you, brother?”

 

He sighed at her teasing, and deflected, “And where did _you_ meet a First Sword?” He was expecting some outlandish tale, like the ones she told the knights over mead and a fire, stories about her travels to Essos, through Braavos, the things she’d seen among the followers of the Red Religion. Instead he got a shrug.

 

“King’s Landing.” Her matter-of-fact statement made him laugh so hard he had to put a hand to his side, in a place that occasionally still ached from being split open.

 

“You’re going round the bend, did you know that?” she said warily, sheathing her sword and eyeing him suspiciously. Jon couldn’t help it. Since his time in the godswood with Sansa, he’d felt lighter than a leaf in a river. _Relieved_.

 

“What’s so funny?” Sam called out as he crossed the yard to them, Rickon skipping along behind him, waving like mad to Davos across the yard who smiled and waved back. However, before either could answer, the boy darted out, bounding for Jon who caught him easily in his arms and perched him on his hip. Rickon still wasn’t eating as well as Sansa would have liked, his body too thin from spending his growing years tired and malnourished. But then, Rickon had always been small, much, much too small when he was born. At nearly half eleven, he should have been heavier nevertheless.

 

“My brother’s brain apparently,” Arya grumbled, kicking out at Jon’s foot. He kicked right back. “What brings you to the training yard, Tarly?” Jon had to stifle a laugh when Sam bristled at Arya’s impudence. The only person she ever really deferred to was Daenerys, and that was no surprise. The pair of them were remarkably similar. Still, Sam had grown accustomed to the respect afforded a Maester of a Great House, and Arya enjoyed taking the piss. Secretly, though, Jon thought Arya very fond of the former Night’s Watchman.

 

“A raven, a raven!” Rickon sang as an answer, kicking his feet out. Jon smiled at him, taking a moment to watch his happy face.

 

“A raven?” he echoed, holding a hand out to Sam. The Maester placed the folded letter in Jon’s hand. Seeing the seal, Jon paused momentarily, holding it out and away from him.

 

“From King’s Landing,” Sam confirmed grimly, clasping his hands behind him. “Though one came just the day before last. Can’t imagine what she needs to say now, but I thought you’d want it right away.”

 

“Probably another complaint she forgot to add to the list,” Jon mumbled sourly. The very _long_ list. He looked over at Rickon who watched him with his wide brown eyes. “What say you, little lord? Shall we open it or toss it to the firebox?”

 

“Open it! Open it!” Rickon shouted, wriggling against him in his glee.

 

“As the lord commands,” Jon murmured, using one hand to break the seal. He unfolded it and let his eyes graze over the contents, skimming instead of truly reading. As he took in his aunt’s words in Tyrion Lannister’s hand, Jon let Rickon slide down his length, setting him deftly on his feet again. He vaguely registered Sam’s inquiry and Arya’s sudden concern. Still stunned, he handed the letter to Sam to read. Arya read over his elbow, eyes widening fractionally.

 

“Apparently, I have a fortnight to get Sansa to agree to marry me, or I shall be shipped out to the Iron Islands to marry Asha.”

 

“Ah, putting her foot down, I see,” Sam said as he read over the Southron queen’s words in Tyrion’s cynical scrawl.

 

Arya pulled a face, “Why is it that she always threatens with a bargain?”

 

“Hardly a bargain, if ya ask me,” Sam muttered under his breath earning him a snicker from Arya. The Stark girl and the Ironborn Queen got along fairly well and wrote to each other quite often. But even Arya would be the first to admit that they weren’t exactly the “good little wife” types. Queen Asha would make a man bloody miserable until she birthed an heir, and then she would chop off his bollocks and sacrifice him to her heathen sea god.

 

“I thought you’d already spoken with her grace,” Sam mused aloud. “Why does Daenerys think you haven’t?”

 

He and Sansa would marry, they’d decided, and he’d advise her in her rule of the North as consort. Though, most would insist on calling him King; he took more issue with this than she. They hadn’t yet written to Dany, wanting to keep it to themselves for a short while and sort through things without all the extra hands and voices. Once the Dragon Queen was apprised, an announcement would be made and a date would be set, and chaos would again reign in Winterfell. And they _would_ be wed in Winterfell; Sansa had no desire to return to King’s Landing and Jon would be the last in line to ask it of her. So Jon had only told the Maester that they’d _spoken_ of it, not that any sort of agreement had been reached.

 

It was silly, perhaps, but the pair of them had missed so many years of being silly. As time passed, Jon had been able to coax out of her some of the events surrounding her betrothals and marriages; she spent more time being threatened and abused than she did being courted. It was sick. The Baratheon cunt’s threats even as she married his uncle. Baelish’s guard attacking her even when she was betrothed to Robert Arryn. Baelish taking liberties with her after marrying her off to Harrold Hardyng. Jon didn’t even want to consider what might have happened once Baelish returned her to Winterfell. More of the same, or worse. _He made me call him father_ , she admitted, _and he called me Cat_.

 

 _Vile_. So no, Jon wasn’t overly eager to have her reliving those memories. The idea of another betrothal and wedding sent her to shaking. The idea of courting her though, properly courting her, was intriguing. She teased him for saying it, claiming that he’d already been incompetently courting her for months. Jon didn’t see how, but she seemed to find it more humorous than not, so he let it go. Regardless, things between them were slow-going. Even if they did have time alone, it would have been slow-going. The dynamic was…awkward. Jon still battled with his guilt and Sansa had her own demons to contend with. There was affection, to be sure, but it took a good deal of effort on his part to shake off the ghosts.

 

Thus, he gave the barest of details to Sam and to Arya, saying that it was more Sansa’s preference than his own. He wasn’t about to reveal to them exactly why he was being so protective. Sansa wouldn’t thank him for it. He explained to them the idea of courting her, to move beyond their unusual relationship; that they needed time to adjust to that idea of being husband and wife, lord and lady, king and queen, instead of Lady Sansa and her bastard brother. Besides, he insisted, neither one of them had ever properly courted anyone. Arya japed and called him a fool, but Sam protested on his behalf.

 

“I think it’s _romantic_ , milady,” he argued mildly, which was usually the only way Sam argued. The bare sentiment of it made Jon flush. He thought about what Ygritte would think of being _courted_. And then he felt a quick rush of shame for comparing the two. Sam broke through his thoughts. “I think we could all use some more courtly love and happy endings around here. After so much strife and bloodshed.”

 

Arya smiled mischievously and brought her clasped hands to her breast, fluttering her eyelids exaggeratedly, “Oh yes,” she trilled, kicking a foot up and making Jon snort, “It is _soo_ romantic! Clumsy Jon Snow tripping all over himself. Panting after my pretty sister for a tumble!” She imitated that grating giggle Lady Alla’s handmaidens often used in their flirtations.

 

“Lady Arya!” Sam gasped disapprovingly even as Jon tossed his head back to laugh. Rickon kept shouting _tumble, tumble, tumble_ , and pulling on Jon’s hand to get his attention. Instead of sobering, Arya fluttered her lashes again and spun on her toes. Even Sam faltered a little while he scolded her.

 

“I wouldn’t call him _clumsy_ , exactly,” Sansa’s prim voice interrupted from behind him. Jon turned over his shoulder to grin at her which earned him her dimples. Arya sheepishly dropped her foot and hands, looking only vaguely deterred by her sister’s presence, but not at all contrite. Rickon skipped over to Sansa’s side, energetically showing her a dog-like figure he’d whittled in a spare piece of firewood with Davos’ help. Sansa praised his work absently with a heavy hand on his head, and her eyes lifted to Jon’s briefly again before she looked over at her sister with an arched brow.

 

“What’s all this about a letter from the capital?” Wordlessly, Sam handed over the letter which she took and read, pausing only to inattentively tell Rickon not to stand on her hem. Once finished she turned to Jon with a smug look and crinkled eyes, and waved the letter as if to say _I told you this would happen_. Because she had. Several times. Jon shook his head, trying to fight off a smile.

 

“ _Fine_ ,” he sighed in resignation, “I shall send a raven today. But don’t be surprised if I change my mind and go be King of the Ironborn.”

 

“Ha!” Sansa barked out a full bodied laugh, “Asha would eat you _alive_.” Arya cackled at his expense, the faithless beast. While Jon kicked out at his sister-cousin, Sansa took up Rickon’s hand between them, swinging it, “Come along little man, it’s time for your bath.” In a flash of a moment, Rickon’s eyes bugged out and he screeched in protest, bolting like a startled foal straight for the Wolfswood. Sansa groaned loudly even as the men laughed at the boy’s antics.

 

“ _Arya_ ,” she whined beseechingly.

 

“On it!” her sister called over her shoulder, already sprinting in Rickon’s direction. Like the Wildlings taught him, Rickon zigged and zagged across the field, whooping every time he crossed an obstacle unimpeded. He cackled like mad when he made it through the gates, Arya’s threats drifting back to them on the wind. _Get back here, you little weasel! If I’ve got to bathe, so do you!_   There was a crash as a passing cart with building materials had to stop short to avoid missing him. But Arya didn’t hesitate before sliding underneath it and continuing on without losing any momentum, shouting her abuse. Jon’s shoulders were shaking while he tried to stamp down his reaction so he didn’t upset Sansa who groaned again.

 

“Still can’t get him in a tub, eh?” Sam asked conversationally.

 

“No!” she bemoaned, stamping her foot. “It’s been three weeks!” Keeping a boy clean in the North was a trial to begin with, but keeping a boy raised by a Wildling clean was a nearly impossible feat. During the whole of his first year home, Sam was forced to drug the boy just so they could get him in the water every month or so. Gilly claimed that not even she and her sisters had ever been so dirty. He gradually got over his trauma-induced fear of the water however, even started swimming when it was warm enough. But now it was just the standard Wildling boy aversion to bathing.

 

“He is just like Robb sometimes, I swear it,” Jon mused to himself. Though, he must have been louder than intended, because Sansa’s gaze snapped to him.

 

“Really?” she asked softly, her face eager for information. Jon cleared he throat and cut his eyes over to Sam, who was looking far too smug to be tolerated. He nodded.

 

“Robb hated taking baths. _Hated_ it. He would bribe Theon to distract Old Nan and the servants so he could run and hide in the kennels.”

 

Sansa grinned, “And where, exactly, were _you_ during all of this?”

 

He lifted his eyebrows superciliously and primly informed her, “In my room, doing exactly as I was told.”

 

“Liar,” she muttered, hands on her hips and he pulled a face. Not that she was wrong. He would always run out to the armory and listen to her father’s guards talk about the war and the great knights who’d fought. Before Theon had come along, Jon was in charge of distracting Nan. Sometimes he would beg her for stories, but he mostly just set small fires in the kitchens.  It was Robb’s idea anyway, the run and scatter plan. Old Nan refused to bathe only one of them at a time; she said it was all or nothing. So even if Theon did get caught out, no one would be getting a bath that night. Jon had never minded the bathing too much, but he never liked to disappoint Robb. And Jon had only been, what, seven summers when Theon came to Winterfell? Sansa couldn’t have been more than four then. Too little and too sheltered by her mother and septa to remember her rambunctious older brother’s mischief-making.

 

“I’ll have you know that I was very obedient,” he deadpanned, struggling now not to laugh at her blatant skepticism. From the corner of his eye, Jon saw Sam watching them like they were precious newborn kittens. And that was more than enough to make him blush, but of course Sansa had to make it worse.

 

The amusement was replaced with something haughty and predatory as her gaze swept the length of him. And Seven Hells, had she been talking to Val or were all women that capable of making him feel like he didn’t have a stitch of cloth on his body? Damn near covered himself.

 

“We shall see,” she said suggestively, and all Jon’s blood rushed southward when he saw her eyes widen and she pulled in her lower lip. When she turned to leave, it was like he’d been slapped in the face. He was frozen on the spot, too stunned and keyed up to move. But he was drawn from his daze by Sam’s unforgiving chortles.

 

“Oh, Seven save me, you are in so much trouble, my friend.” But Jon was hardly paying him any attention. Instead he was watching Sansa make her way back into the keep, calling out to several people and engaging one of the guards as she went. “What’s worse,” Sam mumbled from behind him, “Is that I think you rather like it.”

 

“Sam?”

 

“Yes, Jon?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Yes, Jon.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sansa POV you've been waiting for ;)

Sansa wasn’t at all surprised when Arya came to see her later that evening. Since her encounter with Jon in the godswood, she had been withholding from her little sister. Not because she was afraid of what Arya thought, they had discussed Sansa’s potential marriage a hundred times over. They had spoken long into the first several nights together about Jon and what their marriage would mean. Both girls had come around to the idea quite quickly, actually. Arya was adamant about keeping Jon at Winterfell, about keeping them all together. Moreover, she didn’t want another snake in their midst. If Sansa wed Jon, then she wouldn’t have to worry about losing either of them, nor would she have to tolerate more strangers than necessary.

 

So in true, Sansa hadn’t told her of Jon’s proposal because it was nice to have a secret that was _good_ for once. Something that would make more people happy than not, something that wouldn’t get anyone killed. It had been such a long time since Sansa had a secret like that. Already it had been three weeks since, and suddenly Jon was everywhere she went. Oh certainly he had been present before, but it was almost as if he was anticipating her, showing up just as she did, if not before. He solicited more private moments. They never lasted very long, but they occurred.  And when he was not with her, he was constantly in her thoughts, and occasionally she sought him out for no reason other than to see him. It was utterly mad, and making her dizzy.

 

Sansa sighed, bent over her embroidery as Arya unceremoniously flopped into a nearby chair. Years ago, Sansa would have scolded her for being so…unrefined. But Arya was Arya, and the Queen in the North found great comfort in the small things that hadn’t changed.

 

“You might have said,” Arya grumbled as she folded herself into the seat of the chair. She had a peculiar apprehension about letting her legs dangle in open space. Something about enemies knowing where to hide? Jon was right, Braavos had addled Arya’s brain. Sansa clicked her tongue when she noticed that one of her previous stitches was too loose, she began undoing her work.

 

“I was going to…”

 

“But you wanted to sneak around and have your little tryst first?” Her question was sopping with sarcasm, beyond capacity really. And while she did have some right to be peevish, she certainly did need to take it out on her, and especially not on Jon. That needed to be put to bed right away.

 

“ _No_ ,” she snapped, “We just wanted time to adjust. He is still my brother in spirit, you know. It’s no easy thing.”

 

Arya sighed noisily, lolling her head back, “I know.” Sansa stiffened, her hands freezing in place as the doubts shot across her mind. Jon and Arya had always been close. Everyone said so. Everyone said Arya had only stayed in King’s Landing for so long because of Jon. And Arya wasn’t a little girl anymore. It made some sense. Well, no more sense than putting Jon and Sansa together anyway.

 

“Are you—? You’re not…are you?” she asked feebly, trying to force the question to form. Unsuccessful by all accounts. Arya scowled, bringing a hand to her eyes.

 

“We have talked about this.”

 

“We have.”

 

“Jon _is_ my brother. Not just in spirit. Not because some stupid technicality—”

 

“I _know_ that.”

 

“It’s like I told you before. You and Jon is not me and Jon. He isn’t any less your family, but I am more his sister than you are.”

 

“A puzzling sentiment,” Sansa muttered, turning back to her stitching. She was making Brienne a gown. Just the one for now because Brienne, in true, preferred her armor and breeches. But Sansa thought if she made her one that would fit properly, one of a somber gray with direwolves that chased her suns and moons, then maybe, just maybe, she might wear it for special occasions. Sansa had one particular special occasion in mind.

 

“Blame Mother,” Arya shot back. And it stung Sansa more than she would have liked. She had been awful to Jon when they were children. In her defense, she had only wanted to make her mother happy, to banish that haunted look in her eyes. It took a lot of reminiscing and mulling over to realize that Sansa’s strong reactions to Jon might have hurt her mother as equally as Jon’s presence did. So many things could have been different.

 

“I do and I don’t. But Mother is hardly the point here now, is she?” She was gratified when Arya fell to silence. They could argue about mother all the day long and start afresh the next morning as if they’d never stopped. Close as they were now, they were still vastly different people. Arya had protected herself with breeches and a blade. Sansa hadn’t been able to protect herself at all. Sansa had watched men die. Arya was the one who killed. So, aye, they often bickered nonsensically, especially about their mother, and Sansa found that she took more pleasure in winning than any grown woman ought to. The pitfalls of having a sister, she supposed.

 

But, the truth was her mother _was_ to blame for the strangeness between her and Jon. Growing up, Sansa had always classified Jon as “other.” He wasn’t her brother, but he wasn’t just another boy either. So her practiced indifference soon became very real indifference. Still, it was that first thought, the thought which Catelyn Stark so strongly reinforced, that stuck with her. _He’s not my brother_. When she’d seen him for the first time in Ironoaks, after so many years apart, she’d been struck dumb. Jon was precisely the opposite of the men she had dreamt about as a girl. He hadn’t come in on a stallion in shining armor to liberate her and sweep her off her feet. Instead, he came to her with blood splattered on his face, his white direwolf’s muzzle dripping with another man’s blood. He came to her in black and red and leather, and had Brienne carry her off to safety.

 

So no, he was nothing at all as she’d expected. Jon was dark and brooding and his smiles were hard won. He didn’t say pretty things or make grand gestures. He wasn’t beautiful or shining or anything like they said in the songs. Jon was a hero from the old tales, the dark, quiet, proud avenger. The hero that came with bloodied hands and fire, leaving destruction in his wake. He had a heavy brow and dark eyes with a scar which cut through the middle of his face, and he didn’t always know the proper thing to say. He wasn’t overly sweet like Loras Tyrell, he wasn’t witty like Jaime, and he wasn’t as cheerful and easy going as Harry. He was awkward and fumbling; he would lapse into long bouts of silence and sometimes wandered off without telling anyone. But, to see him fight. He moved like the sword was a part of his arm, like he’d cut through flesh more than enough and knew what it meant to kill. She could feel it when he took her hand, that strength.

 

And yet…Loras liked his petty, public victories, but he never had a scar. Jaime was hard and bitter, he’d done terrible things and was never particularly sorry for them. Harry was the pinnacle of indifference, like Sandor Clegane had been. Ruthless and cruel for no reason other than he could be. Kind, so long as he got what he wanted. Jon wasn’t any of those things. Jon’s sins weighed heavy on his soul, which meant his kindness, his gentleness, his softness ran bone deep. He might viciously execute a man sentenced to death, but he’d never strike a child or degrade a woman on purpose.

 

The knights of Sansa’s daydreams had been handed everything through wealth and beauty. Jon clawed his way up from the mud and the muck; he’d bloodied and scarred himself to save people that he’d nothing to do with. He’d done all of that, and then fought his way to Sansa and claimed two more heads just so she could sit on the Throne in the North. _Alone_. All when he could have taken it for himself; just because it was the right thing to do. He had seen so much darkness; so much of it had touched him, grabbed for him, pulled him back into the earth. But he just kept clawing his way out. He burned brighter for it. He was so quiet and so humble that he didn’t see the way people looked to him, the way they clung to his words.

 

Sansa was in awe of him.   

 

“I suppose not,” Arya stated finally, settling her gaze on Sansa. “Do you love him?”

 

Ah, a tricky question indeed. He’d been her brother and she’d loved him. He was her family and she loved him. He was a trusted friend and advisor and confidante, and she loved him for those things too. In true, she had come to rely on him so greatly that she often wanted his opinion before making a final decision. She trusted his judgement in most things. But did she love him as they said in the songs? Did she love him as her mother loved their father? _My father_ , she bitterly corrected, _not his_. There were brief moments when it was awkward beyond reason between them. Where his sense of honor would rise up and protest against touching his brother’s little sister. Because Robb Stark had been and always would be Jon’s true brother, and no deception or technicality could change that. Then sometimes he would pause and that horrified look would cross his face, like he was thinking about what their father would say.

 

Some moments were worse than others, and only occasionally could she soothe him and convince him that everything was all right. Most times, she could not. He would run off, find Ghost, go into the wood where no one could find, let alone disturb him. Or, he would go to the training yard and beat one of his poor squires into a pulp. It got a little better each time. He even kissed her first now, bypassing the appallingly awkward pecks of that first week after his proposal. They’d discovered that one moment of getting caught up in the oddity that was their life did not, in fact, sweep away all of the barriers and confusion between them.

 

But Sansa _liked_ kissing him. She hadn’t thought she would. She rather thought that it would be an unwieldy, cumbersome duty as it always had been. However, she was more than willing to do whatever necessary to keep him with her. But being close with him was surprisingly effortless. The transition turned out to be far smoother on her part than his. She liked his hand on the small of her back, she liked his looks and smiles and blushes. She liked being in his arms and hearing him make promises she knew no man could ever keep. She could almost believe them then.

 

Still, she worried that there might be a lack of attraction on his part. Oh, she knew she was beautiful of course, she wasn’t _that_ modest. But men preferred curves, they preferred their women to have meat on their bones. Everyone said so, especially Tormund. Sansa was on the skinnier side, her breasts were small even compared to Arya’s. That had always been Harry’s complaint. All of his paramours were buxom and fleshy. When she thought of Jon’s response to her brief mention of it, her cheeks burned. At first, he’d been angry she thought it was even possible for him _not_ to be attracted to her. And then was angry because he realized Harry’s and Littlefinger’s involvement in her insecurities. He’d told her that while some men were preoccupied with teats and arse, there was really only _one place_ a man should focus his attention. He’d said it so lowly and so huskily in her ear that she’d shivered, her knees had nearly given out on her. Still, promises, promises.  Sansa looked back down at her stitching, reworking an entire section so that it could better hold the small crystals she had obtained for her design.

 

“I don’t know. It’s all so muddled right now…” she paused, pulling the thread taut, “But I think I could. And even if I couldn’t love him like a woman loves a man, I know I love him like family. And I respect him. That is far more than I ever hoped for.” She said it thoughtlessly, not even realizing how it must have sounded.

 

“That isn’t true,” Arya insisted. “You used to talk about love like it was this great adventure, like you would die without it. _That_ was all you ever wanted.” With a resigned sigh, Sansa put down her work and looked up at her sister.

 

“I was a silly little girl when I said those things, and I didn’t understand them. Not truly.” She paused, wanting to find the right words to explain herself properly. “When you…when you are forced to grow up quickly, you realize that life happens so _easily_. People wed, they have children, they live and they suffer and die, all so easily and seamlessly that you start believing that there is no sense in resisting it.” She cleared her throat. “I thought I was going to marry Joffrey and that he would kill me. Then one day I was told that I would marry Tyrion and someone killed Joffrey. I didn’t _do_ anything to make that happen. I just kept walking, straight ahead, with my eyes shut, hoping that it would be over soon.”

 

“ _Sansa_ ,” but the young queen waved her sister off and reached for a glass of water. It steadied her, gave her something else to focus on beside the way her hands trembled, the way her chest felt too tight.

 

“When Father died and you were gone, I had no one to guide me, no one to help me. If I said the wrong thing even once, they might have killed me. They didn’t _care_ if I died. Tywin Lannister would have thought it a minor _inconvenience_. So yes, Arya, ever since then I have only ever prayed for three things. My family safe, my home back, and a little bit of kindness. Falling in love,” she scoffed bitterly, “I am not entirely sure I am capable of it anymore.”

 

“You cannot honestly believe that!” Arya protested, nearly leaping from her chair. She had that wild look in her eyes, the gray ones that looked so much like their father’s. It was the look that washed over her little sister whenever the boys had teased her for being a girl, for being a little wild thing that was too small to do anything, always in the way. It was that Stark stubbornness that boiled up in Arya whenever she’d been told she couldn’t do something. _I can too_! Her prickly shouts rang in Sansa’s ears, ghosts from a time that felt so removed from them now, in their lady mother’s solar. Arya was a woman grown, a woman who could do anything, go anywhere, and survive. One better: live. When someone told her she couldn’t do something now, she didn’t pout. No, she didn’t shout or scream or protest. She slit their throat.

 

“Arya, I have a kingdom to rule. I have a keep and a household, and whole peoples to protect. I rather think that finding love in my next marriage, my _third_ no less, is trivial by comparison.” 

 

“Mother didn’t think so.”

 

Sansa shook her head and went back to her stitches, “Mother loved Uncle Brandon. And he died, so she married his brother instead.”

 

“But they loved each other,” Arya continued to argue. Sansa nearly threw her stitching aside, absolutely frustrated. After all, this was the girl who had mocked her almost all of their lives for her inane dreams of knights and princes and happily ever after. She’d called her silly and stupid and prissy. And _now_ after everything they had been through, this was the person who wanted Sansa to believe in all that nonsense again. However, Sansa knew that if she looked up at her younger sister now, if she lost her temper and actually looked at her, she would be lost. She could hear the ragged edges of her desperation, the shake in her voice the betrayed the twist in the gut and the claws in her throat. Arya was after something too. Sansa had known it the moment Jon told them Arya had petitioned to stay on at Winterfell.

 

When Sansa first arrived in Winterfell after her stay in the Vale, she had immediately set to work restoring the place, not just the outside, the walls, but the inside. She’d put her parents’ chambers exactly as they had been. She had repaired tapestries to what they once had been, replaced all of the banners, helped get the kitchens back how their steward and cooks had liked them. Deep in her belly there had been the untamable need to put everything back exactly as it had been before. To make things like they were. But she quickly realized that some of the furniture had been destroyed or burned as firewood. Some of the tapestries had holes and burns so wide and she couldn’t remember the picture. The new cooks had their own preferences for how they wanted things.

 

The banners still hung. It was still House Stark. It was still her Winterfell. But it was changed. Sansa had had plenty of time to process and accept that fact. She also knew that, most of the time, home isn’t always a place. Something she had learnt instantaneously when Jon and Arya came for her in the Vale. Sansa and Jon and Rickon were Arya’s home. Jon was just as he ever was. Rickon would never be himself again. Sansa was Arya’s last project, her last bit of business in regaining what was lost. Waves of sympathy washed over her for her sister, but it was not a path Sansa could ease for her.

 

“They did love each other. And it was a rare thing. I’ve yet to meet two people who love each other like they did. Sam and Gilly, perhaps.”

 

“I just—” Arya sobbed, her face crumpling though no tears fell. And Sansa understood that too. “I just want you to be happy,” she whispered. With a smile, Sansa did set aside her stitching and crossed the room to hug her sister. Arya burrowed against her fiercely and Sansa stroked her hair like she’d done when Arya was too small to talk or think her an idiot. She remembered thinking that Arya was the prettiest babe that ever lived and she was a lucky girl to have such a sister. She felt it all the more strongly now.

 

“I am happy,” she crooned, “So happy that I can’t even speak of it. And we’re all going to stay together now. Even if Dany wants to marry you off to some Dornish lord or foppish Tyrell cousin.” Arya huffed, laughing through her nose. “He shall just have to come and live with us. Because the Starks are staying in Winterfell.”


	13. Chapter 13

They postponed the wedding until the repairs on the castle were complete. They would need every square inch of space to hold all of their guests. Representatives from all of the major households would be in attendance, and Dany would be bringing near all of hers. Jorah Mormont, Missandei, and Grey Worm would remain behind in King’s Landing in her stead. If anyone had complaints, they didn’t voice them. Their guests would come for a week, the ceremony to take place on the second to last day, as was tradition. Unfortunately, there was no getting around the extended festivities for Sansa this time. Dany’s council was making arrangements for food and entertainment, sparing no expense. And Jon knew it was likely to be a good time because evidently, Tyrion had been put in charge of most of it.

 

“Gods,” Sansa grumbled over her needlework, “There shall be wine and whores everywhere.”

 

Still, having the halls so full again, after so much emptiness, was far more pleasant that any of them had expected. Dany and Aegon came riding in on their dragons, loosing them to hunt beyond the Wall. The Tyrells, the Tullys, the Martells, the Greyjoys, the Free Folk Queen and chieftains, and all the major houses of the North attend as well. Mornings are late and their revelry goes long past the hour of the wolf. Still, they do have a tourney.

 

Since Sansa had long since lost her taste for jousting, it is restricted to melee, archery, axe-throwing, a foot and horse race, and the team battle. The first day was for the archery contest, the axe-throwing, and melee.  The races would take place on the second day in the morning, followed by singers and a mummer show, to finish with the team battle on the third day. Jon and Aegon both participate, of course, in fact most of the men do, along with several women, except for Sam and Ser Davos. They sat up on the high rise with their queens and Tyrion, entertaining Gilly, Rickon, Little Sam, and Mance, explaining the games to them. Ghost lay at her feet, content to doze in the sun while it remained.

 

As the competitors prepared for the games, Sansa recalled clearly the first and last tourney she had attended. The first was to honor her lord father, the newly appointed Hand of the King. Ser Loras had given her a blood red rose and she’d truly believed she was destined to be his bride. The last was in The Gates of the Moon, when she’d met Harry, when he’d been rude to her and reminded her so acutely that life was no song and that she had no choices. This was a different occasion, a happier one, but still something in her ached.

 

“Your grace?” Tyrion bid gently, covering her hand with his own. Always so gentle with her, always so careful lest he ruin her. He’d always been that way. “Is everything all right?” Sansa smiled down at him, covering his hand over hers with the other.

 

“I was just thinking that I miss your brother. I wish he were here.”

 

“Ah,” Tyrion said, “You mentioned that at your coronation as well.”

 

She nodded, “I think he would have been glad to see it. I think it would have brought him some peace.”

 

“You believe he needed peace?”

 

“I am well-versed in tormented souls, milord. No matter how beautiful or how brave he was, Jaime was tormented.”

 

“He was with you in the Vale for some time.”

 

“Yes,” she said taking her hands back deftly, “He offered his services to the Waynwoods a turn after my marriage to Harry. He said he’d made a vow to my lady mother to return me to Winterfell and he meant to keep it.”

 

“I always wondered why he didn’t take you out of the Vale from the beginning.”

 

She smiled weakly. “Brienne rode south to get reinforcements just before winter set in. Stannis Baratheon was in King’s Landing at the time.”

 

“Right,” he said clapping the armrest of his chair, “And we came swooping in with a thousand ships, a Dothraki horde, and three dragons and suddenly no one had the time.” Her smile was fixed, but it dimmed. That had been the hardest five months of her stay in the Vale, actually, during that harsh winter. Because when Jaime showed up, it gave her hope. Not at first, of course, but soon enough. She remembered the day Harry presented him to her, her own personal guard. Just in case, he’d said.

 

 _“You didn’t tell me your wife was so beautiful, Ser,” the golden knight had said smoothly, bowing over Sansa’s hand. Sansa had been frozen in place, terrified because she knew his face, because he knew hers, because she didn’t know what was happening. “He said your name was Alayne, wasn’t it?” He’d caught her gaze, watching her importantly, smiling encouragingly like he had a secret she could figure out. She’d shivered under his regard, more scared than anything. “Oh,” he’d crooned, “You’re cold.” Jaime had swept his own cloak from his shoulders and placed it squarely on hers, stepping behind her. “Well you know what those silly fools in the North always say._ Winter is coming.”

 

He’d said House Stark’s words on a whisper, smiling warmly at her, with no malice in his eyes when he winked at her. And the words struck true, sent a chill down her spine. It gave her courage, it gave her hope. It _meant_ something. Sansa hadn’t learned to trust him yet, though. No, she didn’t trust him until he barred Petyr from entering her rooms. Until he’d prevented Harry from taking his marital rights while drunk. Until he held her one night while she cried and they talked a good deal about Myrcella. Though he never admitted it outright, Sansa knew that he looked on the young princess as a daughter even if he couldn’t claim her as such. The girl was killed when Dany came through Dorne. Hearing that the Targaryens were coming, Ellaria Sand had the girl executed. Not that Jaime lived to hear of it.

 

Jamie Lannister had kept his promise to protect her. Tried his damnedest to fulfill his oath to her mother. When it reached the Eyrie that Daenerys Targaryen had won King’s Landing, demands for fealty were quickly on its tail. That’s when Jaime overheard that Jon had been in King’s Landing, had sworn to Daenerys, and they were marching to the Wall. So they made their plans and bided their time. The Knights of the Vale were not summoned to aid in the fight against the White Walkers, nor were the Dothraki. As she swept North, Daenerys sent out her horde to sack those holds which refused to take the knee. Much of the North had been laid to waste. All in all, it took her a two turns to reach the Wall. And it took her, Jon, and Aegon less than a week to send the White Walkers back to hell.

 

It all went wrong when Jaime heard they were marching south again. He was certain that Daenerys would install Jon as Warden of the North, having claimed him her nephew and heir, to make repairs and keep the peace until everything settled down. He came for Sansa at Ironoaks and tried to smuggle her out of the Vale. They were betrayed. By whom, Sansa never learnt. But Jaime was shot down as they ran, and Sansa swept up again by Harry, who beat her and kept her locked in her room right up until Jon and Brienne, directed by Arya, infiltrated Ironoaks. The only kindness she ever repaid Jaime Lannister was forcing Jon to have his body sent to Casterly Rock, where he was interred with his sister and children.

 

“He was kind to me when I thought no one would ever be kind to me again. I know he did some terrible things. He even told me what he did to my little brother, Bran. But, he stopped my husband from hurting me. So he could not have been all bad, could he?” She wasn’t asking because she truly wished to know Tyrion’s opinion of his brother. In fact, she hardly cared about anyone else’s opinion of Jaime Lannister. He died trying to help her, he died keeping his word, and that made him one of the best men she’d ever known. Plenty of other men, her father included, had died so senselessly. At the very least, he’d tried to make it mean something in the end.

 

“I think, your grace,” Tyrion answered slowly, “that you should not be so solemn on such a fine day. As your betrothed is like to notice and pin the blame for it on me.” He was jesting, only half-heartedly because she knew very well that Jon misliked Tyrion more than he would ever own to, but it brought her from her melancholy all the same.

 

Sansa let out a weak little laugh, “Oh, my lord, I highly doubt Lord Targaryen would notice so small a thing as that with all the—” she gestured vaguely in front of her, “fighting and running and riding.” She caught sight of Jon’s dark curls. He wore his Targaryen colors again, though she’d given him a shirt with the Stark sigil stitched on it. You couldn’t see it under his doublet and dragon-tooled armor, but she felt better knowing it was there just the same.

 

“Lady Dragon, do you hear this gobbledygook?” Tyrion asked austerely, leaning around her to speak to Daenerys, who raised her brows slightly at the moniker. Tyrion tended to create a new epithet for you with each encounter.

 

“And what is that?” she inquired good-humoredly.

 

“Lady Wolf believes that your nephew will not notice her solemnity on such a fine, joyous day.”

 

Asha Greyjoy cackled from the other side of the Dragon Queen, earning her a bemused smile, “As if his highness takes note of anything else.”

 

“See? Lady Kraken agrees with me.”

 

“He’s keen!” Asha called back with a smirk, “That’s good in a man. Means you’ve got leverage.” Daenerys seemed amused, though Tyrion and Davos rolled their eyes. Sansa thought it remarkably similar to Cersei’s worldview. Which didn’t help her opinion of Asha in the least. It was…complicated. The Greyjoys had sacked Winterfell, murdered two boys and claimed they were Bran and Rickon. They executed some of the people her family had loved best in the world. Daenerys had forgiven them this, made them her allies, and so the Starks could make no move against the turn cloaks. Sansa would not have known what to do, regardless. Execute the pair of them and let their horrid uncle rule the Iron Islands, continue the pattern of a life for a life? It seemed endless and pointless, and who would benefit? Not her people, for certain. A truce was the only solution. What she felt in her heart mattered very little. Asha was a good queen, and the violence had to stop somewhere. _Chaos is a ladder_ , Littlefinger whispered in her ear. Yes, she thought sullenly, a ladder for snakes who should have been slain long ago. The moment she had stopped playing Baelish’s dangerous game, she had everything she ever wanted. All of it. Tyrion’s spirited conversation with Asha about the dynamics of marriage reverted suddenly back to Jon.

 

“He is a rather morose fellow, though, isn’t he?” Tyrion wondered aloud earning a pointed look from Dany. But he ignored her in favor of turning back to Sansa, “Are you absolutely certain you wish to marry him? Won’t it get rather tiresome catering to all that _moodiness_?”

 

“You’re a right little prick!” Asha chortled from her seat, her leg slung over the rest as she picked at a plate of grapes. Dany sat sedately, her perfect posture erect and her violet eyes twinkling with her unexpressed amusement. Jon was often teased in the capital for his reserved nature, his Northern attitudes. But Sansa narrowed her eyes at Tyrion, unfazed by the wretched scars on his face, able to look in both the green and the black eye unimpeded by her own repulsion. She’d learned a long time ago not to pity him his flaws, but condemn him for his attitudes.

 

“ _Tyrion_ ,” she sighed.

 

He flapped his hands dismissively, “I know, I know, but I had to ask, now didn’t I? What sort of first husband would I be if I let you go so easily? Besides,” he whispered, leaning across to her conspiratorially and bidding her to follow his gaze to where Jon stood in the practice yard. He was speaking to Aegon, not really warming up properly at all, and not even paying very close attention to his conversation at that. No, his gaze kept turning toward the high rise. To her.

 

“If we sit closely like this and I make you laugh, it will get your brooding bastard of a cousin all hot and bothered for you _later_.” Tickled and scandalized, Sansa gasped and swatted him, her lips pulling so wide it hurt her cheeks. Tyrion was snickering, settling back into his seat and accepting another glass of wine from his squire. Sansa muttered spirited abuse at him before turning to find Jon again.

 

He was already watching her, head tilted and chin raised. When he caught her attention, he briefly patted his chest, where he had slipped her favor between his doublet and armor earlier that morning amid hurried kisses. She’d passed it over to him shyly, thinking he’d probably think it silly, but he accepted it with a blush and a smile. Instead of wearing it on his arm, he’d placed it somewhere much safer, claiming it was too pretty to dirty with blood. Sansa honestly didn’t know why she was acting like an untried maid because her betrothed accepted her favor, but there it was. Her tongue slipped out to wet her lips, remembering, and Sansa couldn’t prevent the blush from creeping up her cheeks. Were she wearing a gown the Southron ladies favored, her chest would have flushed bright red, too. Honestly, he was excessively sentimental for a man who claimed to have no interest in songs or poetry. With so many people watching, her ladylike self-consciousness wouldn’t allow her to do more than nod her head at him, certain that the smile on her face made her look foolish.

 

Theon won the archery competition, and Sansa was hardly surprised. Her Master of Games brought him over to present him to her. She put a laurel around his neck and kissed his cheek, noting that he looked much improved since she’d seen him at her coronation. Theon was still somewhat skittish around other men, especially Jon. But from what Asha had confided in Arya, Theon had more than paid for his crimes, and Sansa wished she could have been there when Stannis cut off the head of Ramsay Snow. Still, he was doing well serving Daenerys in in the Crownlands. And the warm weather was much kinder on his weakened constitution. A young Tully from Riverrun won the axe-throwing contest.

 

The melee was quite nerve-wrecking, since there were fourteen participants and it was hard to keep track of who was who. Several men were wounded in the process, and Sansa began to remember exactly why she didn’t like these games. Hadn’t they seen enough bloodshed in true battle? Did they need to play pretend to spill more? Still, it was entertainment for her guests, and these things were exceptionally good for morale and getting business matters settled. She’d noticed that Tormund and Lord Umber were actually laughing and drinking together. The Free Folk had declined to participate in the tourney, utterly confused by its purpose, but were curious enough to attend as bystanders. For a moment, Sansa thought several of them were ready to jump in and defend Jon against his competition. The Umbers intervened, explaining the rules and regulations. A participant had only to get the upper hand and force their opponent to yield, or to be injured to the point of not being able to continue fighting. Several of her Queensguard paced the perimeter of the field, surveying the game to ensure there could be intervention before someone was fatally wounded.

 

Gradually, the number of those fighting in the melee dwindled to skilled pairs who were preoccupied with besting their greatest opponent. Jon only barely beat out Aegon, who laughed and cheerfully jogged over to his aunt-wife. Arya was bested by an Umber, who got knocked to his arse by Brienne who’d taken on Ser Roote and Harwick, who had attempted to strike out at Jon while he was occupied with Aegon. Terrence Volmark defeated Perros Blackmont, only to be struck down by Jon once Aegon left the field. This left only Brienne and Jon. They bowed shortly, playfully challenging each other. Sansa had seen them spar in the training yard. Jon had absolutely no qualms about fighting a woman; he’d even told her about several Wildling women who’d bested him.  No, he wouldn’t hesitate. They were evenly matched. As they circled each other, many in the crowd began to sing _The_ _Bear and the Maiden Fair_ , which was tasteless in Sansa’s opinion, because she had a good idea as to which they viewed as which. There was a distinctive, though strange, reason that Tormund was so drawn to Brienne.

 

“Well isn’t it ironic?” Tyrion hooted, “The She-Man who follows your every waking movement versus the man who will vow to love and protect you all the days of his life. Whatever will happen next?”

 

For one, Sansa was right. The pair was too evenly matched. Nonetheless, there was one thing that changed the tide of momentum. Brienne was far too straitlaced, far too proud and honorable to fight in any way that seemed undignified. She was a Southroner who held to the Seven, who had been raised on courtly chivalry. Jon, however, had fought amongst Wildlings; he was a bastard son of the North. He had already died once, and found nothing dignified in it. He’d been taught all of his life that even if he fought bravely and valiantly and won the day, his prize would still be given to someone with the right parentage, the right name. So even though she hated to hear Brienne’s outraged grunt as she fell, something clenched in Sansa’s chest seeing Jon declared the victor by the Master of Games to the riotous applause of the noble houses of the Seven Kingdoms. _For Winterfell_ , the Northmen cheered, _For Stark!_

 

The ceremony and the pageantry of crowning a victor for a tourney in the North was significantly less than a tourney in the South. Northerners didn’t choose a Queen of Love and Beauty, since most were not knights to begin with. In the North, they often did as Sansa had done for Theon, a laurel around the neck and a kiss from the eldest daughter of the hosting lord. On the field, Jon regained his mount and trotted over to the high rise, where he dismounted and bowed to Asha and Dany, accepting their applause and winking over at Rickon, who was a little overexcited. Then he completely bypassed Tyrion, who scoffed lightly, to bend his head to Sansa. Their eyes met briefly and Sansa felt her belly flip at how intensely he watched her. A wolf locked on his prey.

 

She took a steadying breath and stood, Ghost rose with her, and she accepted the laurel from the steward beside her. Jon stood a step down from her, but he still bent his head as she put the garland around his neck. He lifted it again to look at her, and she had to release a long breath to cool the heat in her cheeks. He shouldn't be looking at her like that, not in public. It was entirely inappropriate. But Sansa couldn't help but feel pleased by it, especially when Daenerys looked so striking in her furs and Asha so closely resembled the Wildling women he'd loved.

 

"Congratulations, Lord Targaryen," she said evenly. Jon dipped his head in thanks, those his eyes didn't rivet from her face. Her lips.

 

"Your grace," he murmured back. He waited patiently for the second half of his reward. Her throat felt tight as anticipation swept through her. Thus far, all of their interactions had been short and private, away from public scrutiny. There was no reason to draw attention to themselves, especially as they were already everyone's primary focus. But the impulse gurgled up and she couldn't help herself.

 

So, instead of the chaste peck to the cheek, Sansa caught his face in her hands and captured his lips for a deep, thorough kiss. The crowd erupted riotously, cheering and heckling even more loudly than they had for Jon’s martial victory, possibly because one half wasn’t booing Brienne’s defeat. Sansa ignored this, and especially ignored the happy laughter coming from behind her, to focus on the eager response of his lips against hers, the way his hands gripped tightly at her waist, the moan she felt but was lost into the roar of the crowd. Sansa broke away softly, pulling back just enough to see his eyes, which glimmered back at her. Such a deep and lovely gray that she couldn’t manage to replicate it when dyeing her thread.

 

“You do realize,” he said as the applause continued, “that now I can’t lose those stupid races tomorrow?” She laughed softly through her nose, butting her forehead against his.

 

“You’d better not.” Jon snorted and pressed another quick kiss to her lips before they turned and waved around at their audience. The crowd roared their approval once more before the Master of Games announced the luncheon. A good portion of their guests would return to Wintertown until the evening feast, so at least there was some respite.

 

Jon escorted Sansa over to the recovery tent, where they were patching up participants, so that she could check on Brienne and Arya. Rickon was quick on their heels, tugging Davos along and recounting Jon’s victory as if the man hadn’t witnessed it himself. Sansa smiled at the sight of them; Davos had grown much attached to Rickon and the boy thrived under the Onion Knight’s fondness. Much to Dany’s regret, his eldest remaining son had died in Stannis’ service, and the two little ones died from fever along with their mother before he even reached Dreadfort. Sansa had every intention of petitioning Dany for Davos’ service. Certainly, he belonged in the North with them.

 

In the tent, Brienne was quick to congratulate Jon and was hardly hurt at all; he’d simply gotten the upper hand before she did. Arya had a deep cut on her arm, which she was bickering about with a Maester, insisting that Sam did it a different way. Eventually Jon sent a squire to fetch Sam to prevent any undue bloodshed.

 

Despite the fact that he remained in his armor and smelled strongly of sweat, Sansa stayed close to Jon's side. He spoke to several of the competitors, shaking their hands and commending their abilities. They all spoke deferentially to her, but it was Jon they wanted. He always insisted that he was terrible with politics, that he chose people for they could do instead of those who would bring solid alliances. Sansa could see it though, the way people moved with him, brightened around him. With Aegon, they were certainly respectful and complimentary, but they clamored for Jon. Sansa recognized the look, the lowered tones, the awe. People looked at Daenerys in the same way, like a god walking among them. A legend made flesh. Their king.

 

At first, Sansa thought she would be jealous. That she would be angry that their love for him threatened her reign. But she wasn't. Jon wouldn't try to overpower her, he wouldn't push her aside and wrest control. He wouldn't treat her as Joffrey and Petyr did. And not even as Harry did. There had been times before Jaime when Harry escorted out into the training yard, among his men and friends. He simultaneously ignored her and showed her off like some prized trinket. They were bawdy and rude and spoke of his several mistresses in her presence. She'd always felt like a favorite whore, utterly humiliated.

 

Even as she held onto his arm, Jon clasped her hand to his chest. He explained when she didn't understand instead of laughing and calling her stupid, he included her in his conversations. He angled himself to her protectively, glared if any man grew too familiar or presumptuous. People generally gave them wide berth, but he physically stopped a squire from passing in front of her and scowled until he ran in the other direction. Hal's son, Kase, heir to the Dreadfort as repayment for loyalty, stood too close and tried to speak quietly to Sansa alone. Jon jerked the man aside by his breastplate with a sneer.

 

Jon liked Hal. He didn't like Kase. They had grown up together, occasionally trained together, but she remembered Robb saying once that the pair of them never got on. Kase was too preoccupied with Jon’s parentage and wildly jealous of his relationship with Robb. It worsened when Kase came forward with his proposal, petitioning for Sansa’s hand several times. Jon’s grumpiness had irritated her for days. She honestly didn’t want to have another conversation with Hal about Kase provoking her husband-to-be. What was it they said about men whose blood was up from battle? Sansa shot Arya a look across the tent and her sister only shrugged and rolled her eyes. No help at all.

 

"My lord," Sansa said sweetly, "shouldn't you retire to clean up for the feast?" She clutched onto his arm, smiled coyly at him, drawing his attention and his annoyance from Kase long enough for the man to make his escape. Vaguely she registered Ghost growling and snapping outside the tent, the roar of shouting and people trying to get away. Sansa had to stifle a snort when Aegon shouted across the tent for Sansa to get her "bloody animal" under control. The implication was clear, and Jon turned to pull a face at his half-brother who smirked back sunnily.

 

Jon turned back to Sansa, not a little chagrined, but she wasn't really bothered by it. Joffrey had let men beat her, Petyr sold her like a brood mare, and Harry didn't care so long as she was available when he wanted. Jon's possessiveness, his protectiveness, made her feel special and valued and _safe._

 

"Perhaps to cool off?" she asked facetiously, brow arching in amusement. He looked over her shoulder, licking his lips to hide a grin before he pressed a subtle kiss to the side of her head. He led her out of the tent to where a party was gathering to return to the Guest House solar. As Dany reached out to take her hand, Jon whistled for Ghost who trotted over silently and nudged into Sansa's side. She stroked along his snout, tutting at him. 

 

"I'll go in," Jon conceded quietly, "but keep him with you." Sansa shot him an amused smirk as Dany pulled her away. Ghost trotted faithfully after her, and Jon watched them go. Sansa was encompassed into the fold; Dany, Gilly, and the handmaidens, walking to the Guest House. The Northern girls squealed and cooed over Ghost, though the others were anxious. Ghost licked their hands and nudged them along.

 

"My nephew keeps a close watch of you," Daenerys mused aloud, pulling her fur stole more tightly around her shoulders. It was a long piece of a black bear pelt from one of Ser Jorah's hunts in the Riverlands. Sansa flushed, inhaling shallowly in a failed attempt to hide her delight in it.

 

"Yes," she answered, mimicking Margaery Tyrell's pleasing lilt, "He is quite protective."

 

"It often feels like having a bear personally escort you, does it not?"

 

"Yes," Sansa smirked and slid her hands into the warm depths of her sleeves, "or a wolf." She swore she saw Dany's eyes crinkle and her cheeks dimple.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caution: Smut ahead.

The feast that evening was wild. Far wilder and more vibrant than any ever held at Winterfell in several long decades. They were entertained by Dothraki dancers and Dornish singers, mummers came from the Reach, singing of the triumphs of the Targaryens and the Starks. The Hall was so crowded that the festivities spilled out into the inner ward and courtyard where the Free Folk danced and sang around enormous bonfires. While supper was served, Jon and Sansa sat apart from the rest on an upper dais as a place of honor. Sansa wore an icy blue gown of damask silk with white swirls which hugged at her curves and dipped lower than usual at the neckline, two swaths of fabric fell from her shoulders to the floor. It was simple and sweet and belted by a broad, wispy silver belt with rose detailing and held together at the shoulders with rose clasps. A splendid gift from Willas Tyrell for her wedding.

 

Daenerys, Aegon, Asha, Theon, Arya, Tyrion, and Rickon sat on the lower dais. Daenerys wore a stately gown of deep red with a wide, squared collar, and a cape which set off her shoulders that glimmered like dragon scales. The rest of the guests were given free reign of the long banquet tables, many of which had been brought out of storage or from the surrounding keeps in order to accommodate all of their guests. But soon enough, the furniture was pushed out of the way in order to create a dancing floor, which Jon and Sansa happily forwent in favor of being near one another.

 

They sat together with hands intertwined, knees touching, and watched their families and friends enjoy themselves. Sansa admitted wholeheartedly that watching was probably more enjoyable than partaking, since many of their guests had already darted from the Hall to retch the Wildling goat’s milk they’d cockily guzzled down or else were taking hits due to others’ drunken clumsiness as they danced. No one seemed to mind overly much, though it was funny to see Sam bellow in a squire’s face for accidentally knocking into Gilly.

 

Sansa thought she much preferred to be tucked away with Jon, especially since he was demonstrative when drinking. Wine had no more effect on him than water, but the Wildling milk had him smiling and kissing her hand and cheek, whispering in her ear and nuzzling there. Olenna Tyrell had tersely informed Sansa that it was _positively indecent_ to lust after your own betrothed that way. But the old matriarch had winked at her and moved along before Sansa could respond. Sansa took this as a blessing and indulged in a little too much wine so she could enjoy his touches and kisses without embarrassment.

 

When the crowd grew to be too much, Rickon fled Davos’ side to sit in Sansa’s lap. He curled against her, happy to be petted and safely ensconced away from wayward hands. Sansa was so distracted by pointing out scandalous behavior to Jon that she hardly noticed Rickon falling asleep. When she did, her hand stilled in his hair and she tried to rouse him.

 

She winced when he called her _Mother_. It didn’t happen very often. Rickon remembered Osha as his mother and had little to no memories of Catelyn Stark. When he came home to Winterfell, some of those memories were roused and his poor, wrecked mind immediately decided that Sansa was his mother. Much like Sweetrobin had when her Aunt Lysa died. Most of the time, gentle reminders were enough to set him right again. But occasionally he would have fits, he would scream and cry and find the nearest tree to climb and hide until Davos or Jon could coax him down. It was horrible. And Sansa certainly didn’t have it in her to distress him so much when he was so relaxed and they were celebrating.

 

“That’s right, sweetling,” she crooned, rocking him, “Let’s go get you to bed, shall we?” He snuffled and nodded against her, yawning.

 

“Will you sing me a song, Mama?” he asked drowsily, his words slurring together. Sansa dropped her nose to his curly head and met Jon’s heartsick gaze. It killed them both when he thought they were his parents; it made them remember too much. But Sansa refused to let it dampen her happiness that evening. Rickon was alive and safe and for all intents and purposes, she _was_ his mother because that was precisely what he needed her to be. Already he had lost so much without ever truly having it, that she was powerless to deny him anything he wanted, especially under the circumstances. She agreed to one song, gently helping him off her lap, rising to take his hand. Jon moved to follow, but she stayed him with a hand and an amused look.

 

“No,” she chuckled, “You stay. Your tales always get him too excited.” She smirked for his sheepishness, squeezing his hand once more before leading Rickon out of the Hall.

 

His nursery, not far from her own chambers, was kept much the same as it was before he’d left home. Some of the toys and the tapestries had been ruined, but Sansa mended what she could and replaced what she couldn’t. The unsightly iron-made Stark trunk remained at the foot of his bed as it had for centuries, partly born of tradition. A tradition that was kept because the blasted thing was near impossible to move for sheer weight. Locked in it were baby things and books filled with old stories and songs and prayers to the Old gods and some for the New. Sansa bypassed all of this, tucking Rickon in under the furs, since she knew all that was written there by heart.

 

“Which song would you like, sweet boy?” she asked softly, helping him remove his jerkin, trousers, and boots, so that he would warm the furs himself. Rickon yawned, snuggling against his fat pillows and reached for the dog figure he’d carved with Ser Davos’ help.

 

“ _The Night that Ended_ ,” he whispered babyishly, like he was telling her a secret. Sansa’s heart clenched. He usually preferred the sillier ones, especially the crude ones sung by the Wildlings, because those were what Osha had sung to him. Sansa had not heard that particular song, one so beloved in the North, since she first left for King’s Landing after the Harvest. She promised to try and remember it, and sang the first three verses as steadily as she could, stroking his hair while he fell asleep. He didn’t last even the two, but she stayed, still singing as tears pricked her eyes. When there was no chance of him waking, she pressed a kiss to his brow, stoked the fire in his hearth, and returned to the feast.

 

She didn’t manage to re-enter the Hall because Jon intercepted her outside the door, pulling her into his arms.

 

“You are supposed to be in there entertaining our guests,” she chastised lightly, allowing him to take up her hands in his, kissing them in turn. He scowled.

 

“They are entertaining _themselves_. So we should go outside and entertain _our_ selves.” He dropped her cloak over her shoulders, pulled gloves from his own pockets for her. She only really understood when he started pulling her along to the courtyard where the Free Folk were feasting and carousing. Jon kept a tight arm around her waist as they maneuvered the crowd, stopping to speak with several people he knew and accepting a flagon of milk. As they passed the dancers, Sansa inclined slightly away from him, listing in their direction. Jon tugged her back.

 

“Don’t go too far,” he whispered, “Free Folk forget themselves when they’re in their cups.”

 

“They won’t hurt me,” she insisted. But his expression said he disagreed. Sansa decided not to argue that point. “Fine, then you’ll just have to come with me.” Jon was barely able to get her name out before she was lurching toward the circle of dancers, pulling him in her wake. And he was forced to follow her into the fray if he wanted to keep close watch of her. The Wildlings danced in twisting reels, pulling each other along and twirling as they went and passed inner reels. Sansa grabbed hand after hand, using the momentum to follow along, and every so often turning her head back to laugh at Jon. He was hot on her heels, torn between annoyance and enjoying himself. When the hands came quicker and reached more brazenly, she swung away from the crowd and drew him to her. Another man did try to follow her, but Jon shoved him aside and gathered Sansa up to him. Amidst the revelry, no one was paying them much mind, which suited Sansa just fine. He held her tight against him, arms braced like steel bands around her back and she wrapped her arms around his neck, fingers sunk in to the hair at the nape. He swayed them in time to the music and clapping, nuzzling against the side of her face. Sansa’s vision blurred, the fire coming in flashes as people danced in front of it. She wanted to throw herself into it, she realized, for just a moment, just to feel the burn. Instead she shut her eyes and pressed her forehead to Jon’s.

 

“Three more days,” she murmured. His hand grazed up along her back and she nearly giggled when his lips went to her ear.

 

“Or we could sneak off to the godswood,” he whispered there and nosed against the line of her jaw. She tsked even as she angled her head for him.

 

“ _Jon_ ,” she censured lightly.

 

“What? You started it.”

 

 _Hardly._ Sansa pulled back to look him in the eyes as she planted a feathery-light kiss on his lips. She chuckled to herself when he followed her retreat, eyes heavy-lidded and lips searching. She’d been amazed to find that Jon’s kisses reminded her nothing of Littlefinger, that when he held her she didn’t think at all of how Harry had grabbed at her. To Harry, she’d been just another warm, convenient body. To Littlefinger, she’d been a ghost. Jon was gentle and he teased her, always waiting for her reaction and asking for permission. If she hesitated, he stopped. If she pulled back, he didn’t insist. It was a strange power to have, and Sansa had begun to think that Cersei Lannister had been right in her assessment of a woman’s power over men. Warped to be sure, but still right. To Jon, Sansa was a living, breathing thing that he continuously pulled outside of herself, continuously coaxed her back into the light. She grinned brightly at him, biting her lips when his eyes lit up.

 

She grabbed his hand and turned with a flounce, “Let’s go.” But he didn’t move, and she certainly wasn’t substantial enough to move him, so he was able to pull her back.

 

“Go where?” he asked dumbly, a line forming between his brows. Seven hells, she thought with a scowl. This didn’t bode well.

 

“The godswood,” she reminded him in exasperation, “ _Idiot_.” She had only a moment to revel in her superiority however because with a sharp laugh, Jon darted forward and swept her up into his arms. He was cheered on by the surrounding men, even as Sansa squawked in protest and smacked his shoulder for startling her. Several people heckled them as they passed, commending Jon for stealing his woman. Sansa liked the label, but wasn’t so convinced of this “stealing” business. When she said as much to Jon, he laughed and told her that was how the Free Folk phrased certain things between a man and a woman. The further you went to steal your bride, the more respect you earned. The more a woman fought you off, the more respect you earned. This made her snort.

 

“Well then Harry would have been the least respected man in their clan,” she announced brazenly, the wine having loosened her tongue in both directions. He arched a brow at her, silently asking but demanding no answer. That was something she had come to appreciate about him; he would listen patiently to anything she had to say. She could tell him any falsehood and he would operate as if it were truth. She could say that she did not wish him to know and he would never bring it up again. She allowed the spirits to give her some courage, and adjusted her grip around his neck and shoulders, settling more firmly into his hold as he navigated the courtyard toward the godswood.

 

“I went along with Petyr’s plan, I let Harry think me fond. And when he came for me at night, I shut my eyes and lay stiff as steel.” Sansa shrugged, “He had what he wanted. Then the next morning Myranda would smuggle in moon tea for me.” She smiled when he kissed her hair. “That was Jaime’s idea.”

 

“Lannister thought up moon tea?” he asked, the surprise clear in his voice. Sansa nodded. He’d told her that if she ever wanted to be free of Littlefinger, she had to thwart his plans. That meant that Harry Hardyng could never sire her child. That meant _Petyr_ could never sire her child. _There must always be a Stark in Winterfell_ , he’d reminded her irreverently, _but they never mentioned anything about lowborn knights or little cunt mockingbirds_. He also promised to ensure her marriage to Tyrion would be annulled, though she didn’t know how he could accomplish it. Regardless, Sansa had drunk every serving in full, and appreciated the relief of the many promised nights of sleeping unaccompanied and uninterrupted.

 

“I will never understand these Lannisters. One a kinslayer, the other thwarting his sister-mistress and keepings oaths to his enemies.” He grunted, bouncing her to readjust his grip on her as they entered the wood.

 

“Well,” Sansa replied, running fingers through his curls, “I always thought he wanted to shock people. To be remembered as something more than a Kingslayer.”

 

“That tapestry of yours will certainly aid in that,” he muttered, stepping around a puddle, making the length of her skirt sway. She winced.

 

“You saw it.” His only response was an affirmative hum. Since Daenerys announced their betrothal, all Sansa had been able to think about was wifely duties. With Jon, she imagined it would never be much of a hardship, as she would grow accustomed to him and he would never be purposely cruel. Still, her mind wandered to her previous experiences, and inevitably to Jaime.

 

She could clearly remember the time he had burst into her room, forcibly pulling Harry from her bed, rendering him unconscious in his drunken stupor. Sansa had accidentally screamed, not fully awake when Harry yanked at her ankles and ripped her nightdress. The lion knight hadn’t even allowed his master-in-name to slumber on her floor. He had dragged Harry from her bedchambers, leaving him exposed in the corridor. He had re-entered her room, placed a chair in front of the door and sat in front of it the whole of the night, though Harry did not stir until early morning. When he did, it was Jaime who roused him, claiming to have found him on his way to check in with his mistress. _You must have been on your way to see your wife. Too much ale, perhaps?_ Though in true, it was Littlefinger he saved her from, barring her door and making excuses. _I hardly think her ladyship is in a state to receive visitors, let alone her father_. Evidently the Lord of the Vale didn’t have plausible explanations for the unflappable Jaime, and so wasn’t permitted in.

 

As Sansa thought more and more about every kindness he had paid her, she sought a way to keep him with her, as she had with Jon and her circlet. The tapestry Jon had seen, which she kept tucked away in a trunk in her solar, was of a bright golden lion, standing guard of a wolf’s den in the mountains. She’d seen the vision in a dream and couldn’t put it from her mind. When that happened, her only respite was to stitch. She meant to hang it in her private bedchamber, just as a reminder for when she woke in the dead of night from nightmares. Jaime would have mocked her for it, she was sure. Would have told her he deserved no such shrine, that to keep his oath and protect her was recompense for his many crimes. It was a comfort all the same.

 

“I understand if you disapprove,” she told Jon firmly. They had reached the heart tree and he easily set her to her feet, helping her to sit on the roots. “I can keep it away in a trunk if it displeases you. I just—It helps me to remember that there is some good in this world, even when everything is terrible.” With a strained smile, he sat next to her, pulling her so that she rested mostly in his lap.

 

“Honor your protector as you see fit,” Jon said into her hair. “I’ll not begrudge the dead your favor. We can hang it in the Hall if you like.” He smoothed out her skirts, draping them over her legs more fully so that the cold didn’t creep in. “He tried to warn me off the Watch once,” he informed her.

 

“Did he?”

 

“Well, in his way,” he conceded. “More like he mocked me for my choice.” That sounded more like the Jaime she knew. “But then, so did his brother.” He sighed. “That was when everyone believed the stories were fairytales told by wet nurses to scare children into being obedient. They were all so very certain of themselves, assured of their place. I was just trying to find mine.”

 

She hummed, thinking that they all had been forced to leave their place in order to see that it had been truly theirs. Arya had told her the story of how she’d come to Braavos, how she had come under the tutelage of a strange man with a sinister occupation. How even then the wolf had surged up in her, fighting against his influence. When it came time for her to prove herself, and she found that she could not, she’d known that she had to return to the pack. She’d known she had to find Sansa, wherever she might have been, dead or alive.

 

“Jaime used to accompany me to the godswood,” she told him absently, leaning her head back to peer into the bloodied black of the leaves. “He said he could hardly keep to the Seven, let alone the many old gods. But sometimes I think he prayed.”

 

“Do you still?”

 

She paused, letting her eyelids drift and sending her consciousness out to the wind, listening. “Believing is…difficult when the gods answer your prayers with more horror. Almost as if every time I prayed, it insulted them and they tried to ruin me.”

 

“But they did not succeed,” he reminded her softly. Sansa smiled thinly, dropping her head to meet his gaze once more. His gray Stark eyes looked almost Targaryen purple in the moon’s lowlight, here where they were hidden from view.

 

“No, they gave me monsters, each more wicked than the last, to protect me from the ones I’d left behind.” Pretty words to describe such heinous atrocities she had seen. She could still hear the sound of the Ice striking her father’s neck and Joffrey’s hissing threats, could still see her father’s head on spike and Sandor Clegane holding a blade to her throat, could feel the sick in her belly as she watched Joffrey die, could still hear Lysa Arryn’s screams as she fell. “But I survived them all.”

 

“Aye, you did,” he agreed, gloved hand coming to cup her cheek. She leaned into the touch, desperately wanting to stifle the urge to flinch away. Needing to learn to trust again. “We’re together now, that is all that matters. Because, if I cannot slay any monster that may come for you, then Arya certainly will. And if not her, then Brienne.”

 

“She _does_ like you, you know,” Sansa insisted blithely. Jon only laughed at her.

 

“No, I don’t think she does.”

 

There was a moment's hesitation, a long pause when his eyes narrowed in on her lips, wavered back to her eyes and down again. They'd not had much privacy since he proposed, nor much time to themselves. Their first kiss had been the most spontaneous, the least awkward and most passionate. Today's had been the most impulsive, thoughtless and genuine. There had been kisses, short and affectionate, sweet, teasing brushes, with hands and bodies at respectful distances. Brienne kept annoyingly close after the announcement was made. Sansa really did love the woman, but she was hardly a maid any longer and certainly did not need another septa. So she clearly saw the question in his eyes, that sharp keenness that had been buried in his touches and need to be close since he had come home. His tongue darted out to wet his lips and Sansa's belly swooped.

 

He leaned to kiss her, mouth slanting and hot against hers in the bitter night air. She caught him easily, hand fluttering up to his cheek. She tugged, lengthening each press, loving his softness. His hands tightened on her back and legs, as he pressed in insistently, all awkwardness and hesitation vanishing. Sansa moved against him, wanting to be closer, wanting more not less. To do so, she had to stand and resituate herself astride his lap. She let her knees rest on the roots, let her skirts bunch between them, her cloak draped around to hide them, and she drank down his groans as she settled against his hardness.

 

“We shouldn’t—” he said brokenly against her lips. Though his grip on her didn’t lighten and he didn’t stop kissing her.

 

“We _should_ ,” Sansa insisted, rocking her hips forward. This was what she had wondered about, what she questioned. The maids talked freely in front of a bastard girl, disrespectful but educational. She had always compared her own experiences to theirs, and found them lacking. She’d listened to their whispers and kept them close, mulling them over. She’d wondered if there was something wrong with her. Only the once had she played pretend, when Harry was very, very drunk, and unlikely to remember it in the morning. The experience had been gravely disappointing, mostly because she had to work so hard at warming herself up that Harry spent himself quickly and passed out next to her. With Jon, she thought, everything would be different. Everything was _already_ different. The Wildlings said he’d had a woman among them, a fire-haired spearwife who’d ripped off the heads of lesser men. Harry knew how to get bastards. Jon would know how to please. She opened her mouth for him, welcomed the onslaught of his lips and tongue and teeth, tasted the grit of that Wilding milk. She pushed her breasts against him, loving that he was so solid against her, even as he reacted shakily to her every touch.

 

And her prediction of his proficiencies proved correct after several moments of working her up with his mouth. His gloved hand slid up her skirts, dancing along her leg. At first the frayed leather was so cold that she hissed, but as he dragged it along her skin, he warmed himself, and moved higher. When he wrenched the glove off and put the length of his bare hand against her inner thigh, she gasped. He’d done it before, she realized, patiently waited for his hand to warm before touching a woman where she was most sensitive. Sansa all but snarled into his mouth, her hands sinking into his curls as his hand inched higher. He bypassed her smallclothes easily, as they were loose and damp and tractable. Jon touched her gently at first, long, slow circles and indulgent presses. He didn’t change his course or pace until she whined and pushed against his hand, trying to get his fingers where she wanted them. It was a startling impulse, thinking that she wanted his fingers in a specific place. But as is often the case, her body knew what it wanted long before she did, so Sansa crushingly caved into the instincts which drove her.

 

“ _Jon_ ,” she gasped out, “Jon, _please_ —” He stifled her by covering her mouth with his once more.

 

Jon moaned against her lips, like he was dying or starving or would never be warm again, and she felt the length of his fingers press against her and slowly slide down her folds. She panted out a sharp cry when his fingers slipped into her, one, two, and then three, working her even as his thumb moved over a delicious place she’d not known previously. Jon released her lips to kiss a path to her neck, to a sensitive spot just behind her jaw. He laved at it, teased her, kissed down the column of her neck only to return again. All the while, his hand worked under her skirts. When the tide rose, when her belly clenched and she thought she would faint, she thought briefly that it felt very much the same as when Aunt Lysa had nearly pushed her out the Moon Door. The rush, the fear, the anticipation of something too much too soon. _Jon, Jon, Jon._ And then it swept through her like hot fluid in her veins, intense and just this side of painful, making her squeal into Jon’s shoulder. His hand still moved against her as it subsided, and she felt loose and heavy, but not at all tired like she’d expected. Sansa caught his mouth again with hers, moving frantically against him, loving his smile against her lips, giddy from his amusement. But still her center throbbed, she felt it pulse and search, wanting more. And more than that, she wanted to please _him_.

 

Without thinking too much about it, her hands searched out the laces of his breeches, fumbling through the awkward angle because he still held her tightly against him, lips insistent. But she managed to get them open, managed to push through his smallclothes to free the solid length of him. He was bigger than Petyr, she thought viciously, though Harry had been wider. Her knowledge of this part of him was limited, since neither man had ever solicited her help, but when she touched Jon, her gloves still on, he gaped up at her. His eyes blackened noticeably, his breath coming in hard pants.

 

“Will you let me steal you?” she asked huskily, wanting to laugh or cry outright. You weren’t meant to ask permission to take what you wanted, you just _took_ it. Like Cersei did when she burnt the Sept in King’s Landing. Like Dany did when she slaughtered the Great Khals and stole their army. Like Ellaria Sand did when her lover’s brother displeased her. But Jon gazed up at her like she was the fire in the night, the haven in the storm, salvation after so much darkness. His gloved hand reached up to jerk her head down to his, smashing their lips together in a rough kiss.

 

“Only if you don’t make me fight you,” he breathed into her mouth.

 

“That’s not the rule” she whispered back. Jon groaned when she bit his bottom lip, nipped at his bearded jaw, and down along his neck. As she did, she stroked him deftly, once and then twice, just curious to see how he felt. And then she guided him into her, simultaneously impaling herself in one fluid motion. They both cried out and sought each other’s mouths, nipping, tugging, and nuzzling as she adjusted to him. Sansa tested herself, rocking from side to side, letting him slide in deeper. As she did, he swore harshly, his hands tightening on her so hard that she would probably bruise. Sansa didn’t care. Men had bruised her before for their own pleasure, not for hers, never for hers.

 

Then she moved. Back and forth, swiveling her hips as Gilly had whispered to her about. She clenched down on him, making him bellow out and kiss her fiercely as he bucked up viciously. She started her dance again, feeling her own rise billow up, but with a low growl Jon was standing up, holding her forcefully in his arms and still inside her. The sudden change in angle, the surprise of it, had her writhing and gasping, scrambling for purchase, but he didn’t yield. Jon got to his own knees on the grass, bringing her to the ground with him though he dislodged himself in the process. He bunched her skirts, and leaned forward to angle himself again, and rasped out in her ear.

 

“Wouldn’t want to bruise those pretty knees while I fuck you,” and without giving her a moment to respond, he thrust back into her. Immediately Sansa wrapped her legs around him, angling her hips to give him more as he pounded in and out of her, the cold air seeping in and biting her exposed skin. This part she remembered, she thought, bringing her hands to his biceps as she panted and squeaked in time to his thrusts. But usually it _hurt_. Usually she didn’t feel so out of control and hot between her legs. _Jon._ She certainly had never felt so much slickness there. _Jon, Jon_. Their bodies squelched as he drove into her, he moved so easily in and out, and his eyes were locked furiously on hers, making her slightly terrified to look away. _Jon!_ Her own peak came on her so fast that she’d hardly been aware of it rising again; he ground against her, angling himself to drag against her sensitive folds, and she shattered, her head jerking back against the cold, hard ground as she gasped out his name. It was so potent that she nearly missed his release. But his strained, stuttering shout drew her sluggish attention again. She watched as all that had glittered in his eyes flashed violet and he spilled himself into her. He whispered her name like a prayer _Sansa, Sansa, Sansa_ , and jerked against her, pushing in more deeply, gaping down at her.

 

Before he could say anything, she pitched up to kiss him again, her hands sliding from his face to brace around his neck. He responded instantly, their kiss open and messy and reassuring. When she had finally settled and felt a little less raw, he pulled out of her and rolled them so that they were sitting up against the trunk of the heart tree. They straightened themselves up, wrapping each other in their cloaks and kissing, hands seeking warm places to hold.

 

“Seven hells,” she muttered into his neck.

 

“Okay,” he breathed out, “That shouldn’t have happened, and Arya would gut me if she knew—”

 

“Please don’t talk about Arya when you have a hand between my legs.”

 

“Right,” he huffed a laugh, making her giggle, “But I am glad it did happen,” he finished on a whisper. Sansa kissed him long and slow again, smiling against his lips.

 

“Me too.”

 

They sat that way, talking and holding onto each other late into the night, the breeze rustling the leaves above them, whispering. The couple paid it no heed, however, more interested in the sounds of each other than of the gods, until they drifted off to sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've been looking for Bran, we're gonna start having a conversation about him.  
> Thanks so much to everyone sticking this out with me!

Sansa woke with a start, having heard a childish voice call out her name. As she twisted her head looking for the source, she noted that her body was heavy and warm even though her nose was cold as ice. She ached in so many places, was stiff and uncomfortable, but Jon’s body against her was like a veritable hot spring. She and Jon were entangled, swathed in the layers of each other’s cloaks, and surrounded by warm bodies of fur, pure white and dove gray. Which had her stiffening in Jon’s embrace.

 

“ _Jon_ ,” she whispered frantically, tugging on the front of his jerkin. “Jon, wake up we fell asleep in the wood!” He snuffled, his head jerking in response to her summons, and he took in their setting. But he didn’t seem to register their bedmates.

 

“Jon, _look_!” she hissed, tossing her head in the direction of the gray fur. She couldn’t make herself look over, but saw his eyes widen drastically. Her attention turned to the big white head which re-settled itself on her lap. It was Ghost, of course, who had probably sought them out when they couldn’t be found in their chambers. But the other?

 

“Is it—?” she stuttered. “Is it—?”

 

“A direwolf,” he confirmed tilting his head to get a better look. “Yes, but…Ghost knows it. Wait, Sansa, there’s a _collar_.”

 

“ _What?_ ” she gasped, twisting and contorting herself to get a better look. She felt Jon grasp tightly at her, but she pulled away, shaking life and blood into her legs again and effectively dislodging Ghost from her lap. A dirty, broken leather strap lay on the ground at their feet. The big gray lifted her head, her dark yellow eyes opening slowly to greet her. Sansa knew those eyes.

 

“ _Nymeria_ ,” she whispered, and she reached out her hands to introduce herself again. Her sister’s direwolf nuzzled against them, licking gently. That’s when Sansa heard little whines and snuffles. From under Nymeria rolled out three pups; one a slivery gray, one black as coal, and one brown and gray. Sansa lurched to throw her arms around the wolf, snuggling into her fur. Nymeria submitted happily, tail flapping against the ground.

 

“I cannot believe it,” she cried, arms tight around the wolf but turning her head to look at Jon, “She found her way home.” But Jon’s eyes went beyond the grown direwolf to her pups.

 

“Three pups,” he muttered to himself.  Sansa could see the glaze in his vision, the way his mind raced back to another time. Probably to the day he and Robb had discovered the first litter in the woods. Sansa pressed a kiss to Nymeria’s big head and stood to gather up the wolf cubs. They cried at her, whining pitifully as she set one in Jon’s lap and pulled the other two to her. Jon also stood, holding the little gray one by the scruff.

 

“This one has green eyes like Shaggy did,” Sansa cooed, “We should give him to Rickon.” She scratched the black’s ears, kissing him between the eyes. “And this one looks a bit like Summer, doesn’t he?” The gray and brown pup leapt from her lap to jump onto Ghost’s back, who didn’t react to the playfulness. It made Sansa laugh in delight though, watching them together. With a frown in his eyes, Jon handed her back the gray and she accepted the pup with a twinge in her heart. Lady had had such a lovely coat too.  Ghost never howled the way the others had, but Sansa knew that he occasionally slunk off to where Lady was buried in the lichyard, resting on her grave like a stone guardian.

 

“Three pups,” Jon repeated somberly, “Three Starks.”

 

Sansa frowned then too. “But we only need two to replace the ones we lost. Lady and Shaggydog, there isn’t—” She cut herself off when she noticed Jon’s face lifted to the canopy of the trees, ear angled toward the wind. “What is it?”

 

“ _The Night that Ended_.” Sansa stiffened, through her confusion and the liquor blurred memory, she heard Rickon asking her for a song he had probably never heard properly. The oddity of the request sent a chill to her bones.

 

“A song?” she asked, feigning some ignorance with calm she didn’t feel.

 

“Bran’s favorite song,” Jon reminded her. The strangeness lanced through her like a hot knife, the hairs on her arms rising to uncanny attention.

 

“Bran?” she repeated, feeling dizzy. That was right. It had been Bran’s favorite song. One of them, anyway. He always wanted to be a knight. He had been obsessed with the legends and tales Old Nan would tell him of strange creatures and the walking dead. If he couldn’t get Old Nan to sing it for him, he would beg Sansa. And Sansa could never say no to a song.

 

“It’s his voice Sansa, can’t you hear it? Listen.”

 

She did. She heard. It was soft and feathery light against her ear, a warm whisper of a voice she knew in her heart. He called to her, he sang for her like she had sung so many times for him. The words he knew so well, the story which had repeated itself. Hope bubbled in her belly.

 

“Oh _Bran_ ,” she cried. “Do you think—do you think this means he’s coming home?”

 

“I don’t know. But he can see us, I know that much.”

 

She dropped the pup in her arms to the ground and rushed forward, putting a hand to the face of the heart wood. She caressed the face as if it were Bran himself, as if he could feel her reaching for him. Wind ruffled through her hair, “Then we shall come every day that we can, won’t we? We shall come until he’s home.”

 

“Whatever you wish.”

 

“I hope he isn’t— _displeased_ with us. He was so young when we left, he might not—” She was cut off  by a bitter gust cutting through, making the leaves twist and laugh, teasing giggles drifting by them on the wind as it tossed their hair along. _Silly girl, silly girl!_ A raven cried overhead.  She spun around to look for it as Jon tossed his head back to laugh.

 

“Well I think that answers that!” He gazed up at the heart wood tree, “We do miss you. Come home to us soon, little brother.” _Not so little anymore_ , Sansa thought bitterly. A softer breeze came through, and they could hear the twinkling of the Wildling bells coming from their tents outside the keep, and those within the courtyard.

 

*

 

Most of their guests were still abed when they walked back together, hand in hand, the five wolves trotting ahead of them. Nymeria held one pup by the scruff because he was too little and kept tripping over the uneven cracks in the paved path. Ghost walked in tandem with his littermate, nudging the other two pups along when they fell behind.

 

“It’s getting warm again,” Jon mused idly, looking up to the sky. Sansa was sure she looked a mess, even though Jon promised that he’d swept her skirts of dirt and leaves and that her braid was neat. There was nothing to be done about her smallclothes, however, he’d nearly torn them off of her. Explaining it to Gilly was going to be ever so much fun. Thankfully, both of them were early risers, so no one would find it amiss that they were up and about so early; either because they had stayed up the night with their guests or because they rose before dawn. Brienne would certainly be cross, but Brienne was almost always cross.

 

“I absolutely refuse to believe that,” she said idly smoothing down her hair for the hundredth time. “The warmth is entirely due to her majesty’s dragons. Obviously.”

 

He smirked. “Obviously.”

 

“It may be silly,” she said quietly, leaning into him, “But I want it to snow for the ceremony.” She blushed at the amused arched of his brow. “I know,” she sighed, “it _is_ foolish. But my first wedding in the South was mid-summer. And then with Harry it was springtime, so that guests could travel through. Petyr wanted a large traditional ceremony.”

 

“He died far too quickly for my taste.” She censured him with a look, but he didn’t seem sorry for saying it. Instead of discussing it further, she pressed a kiss to his bearded jaw and kept walking.

 

“Father loved winters here. No matter how ominous he made them seem.”

 

“You would think it his blessing, I take it? If it snowed?”

 

She turned her head and thought of the tundra, where from her chambers’ window, she could see patches of faded green burgeoning through the snow. She remembered Robb and Jon and Theon pulling them along on a sled. Arya always wanted to go faster, Bran always wanted to go higher. Sansa would just hold on tightly to Rickon and shut her eyes to the wind that whipped through her hair. Can’t shut your eyes anymore, little bird.

 

“How did he always say it?” she murmured, pulling her cloak more tightly to her as the wind picked up, “When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.” She drew her gaze back to their crowd of direwolves. “And the pack survived. It would only be fitting to continue that in a snowstorm.”

 

He chuckled, “If it is all the same to you, your grace, I would prefer not to trudge out to the godswood amidst a white out.”

 

“Enough of those for one lifetime?” she japed.

 

“Not even the coldest day or darkest night at Winterfell can compare to those on the Wall and Beyond. There was one night so black, that even with a torch I couldn’t see beyond an outstretched hand.”

 

“I’d like to see it someday,” she confessed wistfully, “The Wall. Tyrion said it was magnificent.”

 

Jon snorted, “Tyrion stood on a battlement, when the sun was blocked out by the mountains in the west.”

 

“And you did not?” she asked laughingly, finding it difficult to be annoyed with his strange jealousy of the Royal Hand. He hummed.

 

“I’ve climbed it. Scaled the cursed thing bottom to top and sat on the edge as the sun rose.”

 

“You _climbed_ the whole thing? Alone?”

 

He shook his head, “With Wildling raiders. To make way for them into Castle Black. They died there.” 

 

“I’m sorry.” He shrugged and bent to pick up a stick and throw it for Ghost who raced one of the pups to get it.

 

“It was before we sorted our priorities. Before my black brothers killed me.”

 

“You still took back Winterfell,” she conceded softly.

 

“With Stannis and the Wildlings, yes. And then I decided I was finished with the Watch, I’d given them a last breath already.”

 

“So you rode South.”

 

“So I rode South,” he echoed, deep in his memories. He still had nightmares about Daenerys riding Drogon across the skies, of the smell of burnt flesh and preternatural screams. Dothraki savagery he could handle, but the utter ruin her three dragons brought to the Crownlands was sometimes more than he could handle. It didn’t help that many of her prisoners had been fed to them. Jon counted himself blessed to have escaped that fate.

 

“Would you have gone back?” she asked, clutching his arm tighter to maneuver a dip in the path, “If her grace hadn’t named you her heir and disbanded the Watch?”

 

“Too many ifs.”

 

“Humor me, then.”

 

He sighed grudgingly, “With the White Walkers dead and peace treated with the Free Folk, the Watch was unnecessary.”

 

“But?”

 

“But…their number was decimated by the Others. It would have taken some time to rebuild and regroup.”

 

“Meaning you would have gone back.”

 

“If there were still wights and Walkers threatening the South. If the Free Folk had refused peace. If Stannis were King. If a dozen people had kept their mouths shut about who I was on the Wall. If my aunt hadn’t named me her heir and disbanded the Watch. If Brienne hadn’t come to us with your whereabouts. If we hadn’t found Arya and Rickon. If I wasn’t needed here. If I were a better man and didn’t want the things that have been handed to me, then yes, I would have returned to the Watch.”

 

“Well,” she said haltingly, “I don’t particularly agree with the better man part, or that you have been handed anything at all in your life, but you are right. Too many ifs.” 

 

“This may not be the most opportune time to discuss this _considering_ ,” he said pointedly casting his gaze down the length of her. Sansa blushed at the swath of heat it sent to her belly and below. She quickly pecked his lips, and nudged him to continue. “But…but there is a possibility…The only people who truly know who my mother was are dead.”

 

“But Howland Reed seemed certain of himself,” she countered readily. This was a conversation that had come up between her and Arya on several occasions. Back when they were adjusting to the change, talking through the various points and reasonings. Sansa was still surprised at how quickly she believed it. “He knew Father and Lyanna very well. He said it was not merely fever that took her, but blood loss. That she died from childbirth. Father brought you from Dorne. And that’s where they found her. In Dorne. They say she was held there for nearly a year…perhaps Rhaegar took her to begin with because she was pregnant.” She glanced over at him, brooding again. “Where is all this doubt coming from? Is it because of the wedding?”

 

He shrugged, “Doesn’t it seem… _convenient_ somehow?  Here I am, a Targaryen and a Stark, holding the North for Stannis Baratheon when my aunt, a few seasons older than myself, comes in with my half-brother and three dragons to solve all of our problems. Doesn’t it seem too clean and even, me becoming Lord of Winterfell, tying the North and South together?” And the last question, the one that had thundered in his brain for months. _What if Robb had lived?_ What then? Would Robb have agreed to marry Sansa to Jon? Would they have been forced to return to King’s Landing as Daenerys’ heirs? Would Daenerys have executed him to prevent a rival? It was all so clouded and muddled that his dreams were plagued with visions of wolves and dragons. Sometimes he was the wolf, sometimes the dragon, but always the skulls of the dead rolled at his feet.

 

Sansa snorted, pulling him out of his thoughts in surprise, “I cannot think of a single thing about your life that has been _convenient_ , Jon Snow. Least of all your parentage. If Father had ever told anyone the truth, that you were a Targaryen and Rhaegar’s son besides, Robert Baratheon would have had you killed. He wanted Daenerys dead, as I recall, until Father convinced him otherwise.” She paused. “They say Robert loved your mother very much, but I doubt he could have suffered you to live had he known.  So I think it all rather makes sense in the end.” She smiled over at him sadly, “Father would not have wounded my mother so for anyone else.”

 

“In that, you are right.”

 

“I wish he’d told her the truth,” Sansa whispered, voice strained. “Just the look of you hurt her beyond reason. I know she would have been a better mother to you had she known. Father was always a fool that way.”

 

“I suppose he didn’t want to risk it. They weren’t married more than a moon’s turn before he left. He didn’t return until well after Robb was born.”

 

“Yes, but _later_ …later when he knew he could trust her. I just don’t understand it.”

 

“I don’t suppose either of us ever will. The die was cast long before we were given a say.” He stopped suddenly, taking in the sight of the castle with Sansa’s arm tucked in his own. Ghost stopped suddenly too, the pups crashing into his legs. Nymeria, ahead of them, waited. “He promised to tell me the truth. Once I’d taken the black. Once I was out of Robert’s reach.”

 

“I’m sure he would have. I _know_ he would have.”

 

“I wonder what I would have done.”

 

She moved to kiss his cheek, “Just the same,” she whispered. “Probably.” He smiled in response, and kissed her carefully, trying to banish thoughts of mothers and fathers and Starks and Targaryens in favor of just being present with her.

 

“Probably,” he agreed.

 

*

 

To say that Arya was thrilled to see Nymeria again was a gross understatement. Jon and Sansa hadn’t even made it back to the main keep when she came rushing out of it, on high alert and eyes scanning the courtyard. She was barely dressed and her hair was undone about her shoulders. Then her head snapped to their direction and her feet were moving before she could cry out. Nymeria dropped her pup and bounded in the direction of her mistress-sister, and the two of them collided with one another, hitting the ground on a roll as Arya cried and kissed her wolf’s face. Sansa only barely managed to stifle the sob that rose in her throat but couldn’t prevent the tears that slipped from the corners of her eyes. She turned to Jon, and when he put his arm around her shoulders comfortingly, she slipped hers around his waist, and they chuckled together when the pups chased after their mother, yipping and tails wagging. Ghost approached them slowly, but stopped and sat, keeping watch of the dog pile.

 

Only a moment later a streak of dark auburn curls flashed from the door of the keep and leapt for the pile. Rickon landed atop to Arya’s threatening complaints and the wolves’ mad barking. Jon and Sansa stopped beside Ghost, laughing all the harder at the sight. As Arya hugged Nymeria tightly to her breast, talking and cooing at her old friend, Rickon picked up the pups in turn, playing and wrestling with them. The ruckus they made didn’t diminish even as Brienne stomped from the keep, demanding to know what in Seven hells was going on. And it didn’t stop when Sam came out on her tail or Davos shortly after him.

 

“More direwolves,” Davos breathed, eyeing the set of them warily, even as Sam bent to pet the pups and become acquainted with Nymeria. She was somewhat smaller than Ghost, so perhaps he wasn’t truly afraid. “Where did you find them?” the Onion Knight asked in his bewilderment.

 

“The godswood,” Sansa answered sunnily. “A good omen, don’t you agree, Ser Davos?”

 

“I am not sure what to think, your grace.”

 

“Be at ease, Davos,” Jon said reassuringly, “The last litter we found had six pups, one for each child of Stark. Just before her grace’s father was named Hand of the King.”

 

“Some might think that an _evil_ omen, your highness.”

 

“Not in the least,” Sansa assured him, bending to intercept the gray pup as it bounded for her. She swept it up in her arms, cradling it like a babe and tickling its downy tummy. A female, she noticed. “They kept us safe. They kept us a pack.” Except for Lady, she thought sadly, Lady was sacrificed to the Lannisters. When Joffrey was threatened, Lady was killed and Nymeria got to run away. Lady had been offered up as restitute, just as Sansa had.

 

Davos stood beside them, his hands clasped behind his back, “I suppose you would know best, your grace. My sigil is an onion, after all.” Sansa laughed brightly, setting the squirming pup to her feet again, but stayed in a crouch to scratch under her chin. She looked up briefly when Jon put a hand to her shoulder.

 

“I suppose you’ll claim this one?” he asked carefully. Sansa narrowed her eyes and caught the gaze of the sweet little darling, holding it as they came to an understanding. When Sansa smiled, the pup whined haltingly until it let out a weak howl. From ahead, the other two pups joined her, nearly falling over from their efforts. Even Brienne smiled at the scene.

 

“I shall call her Steel,” Sansa told them resolutely, stroking her little head. _Because when I was porcelain, I couldn’t protect Lady. Now I am steel, and she shall be too._

 

“A very unladylike name, your grace,” Jon japed subtly with a wry smirk on his lips for her when she upturned her face to look at him reprovingly.

 

“I should think so,” she shot back as she stood again, releasing Steel to try and tackle the unflappable Ghost. Rickon, confused in his excitement, believed the little black pup to be Shaggy reborn and called him such. They were unable to prevent him from warging into the wolf pup, establishing a permanent bond between them, though scaring the life out of Sam who caught the boy before he fell. Arya, too, cried out in shock, though Nymeria blocked her from reaching for Rickon. When the boy emerged from the bond, he whooped with joy and the two of them ran about the courtyard gleefully, the pup yipping and jumping, trying to snag Rickon’s breeches with his teeth. The last unnamed pup, the brown and gray, chased after them wagging its tail like mad.

 

“And what about that one?” Jon asked pointing. “What are we to call him?” But Sansa didn’t know how to answer. In her heart of hearts, she knew the pup was meant for Bran. That somehow along the way Summer had died. She wanted desperately for the gods, or for Bran, to give her some sign so she could do this properly. She wanted desperately to know for certain that Bran was alive and well. Upon his coming to Winterfell Sam had confessed to her that he had met Bran once, in Queenscrown, and that he and his small party had been making their way beyond the Wall. He had kept this from Jon, and kept it still, because Bran had not returned, not even after the destruction of the White Walkers. Sansa knew the only reason that Jon had any hope of his return was for her sake and not his true belief. She watched Rickon and the two pups muck about the courtyard for a long while until the Unnamed One darted away from them.

 

“ _Winter!_ ” Rickon shouted after him, “Get back here!” Without a moment’s hesitation, the little pup answered his call, turning around to bound back to the little lord.

 

“Well, that’s decided then,” Davos remarked wryly, much to Sansa’s consternation. First the song, now the name. What was it that Old Nan had called that gift? The one where you could see beyond, ahead and behind? She couldn’t remember it now.

 

“What’s troubling you?” Jon asked quietly, angling toward her so Davos couldn’t hear.

 

“It’s Bran.” He raised his brows. “We know he’s alive,” she continued, biting her lip, “but I don’t think he’s coming home.” She put a hand to his arm. “I think you were right when you said he could see us at the tree. I think he sent Nymeria to us. I think— _Jon_ , what if Bran can warg like you and Rickon?” They turned together to watch the two pups tackle Rickon, with Shaggydog nuzzling at his feet while Winter licked his face enthusiastically, making the boy hoot in delight.

 

“Into Winter, you mean?”

 

“Into _Rickon_.”

 

“Not possible.”

 

“Last night Rickon asked me to sing _The Night that Ended_.” He stared at her, unbelieving but knowing all the same. “The last time he heard that song he was only three years old. _Bran_ always asked me to sing it for him.”

 

“I’ll discuss it with Sam. Until then, not a word to anyone. Not even Arya.”

 

“But—you don't think anyone would—?”

 

“I don't know what to think. All I know is that I’ll not let another soul split up our pack ever again.”

 

Sansa clutched his cloak tighter, curling into him as his arm came around her waist. _Their pack_ , she thought watching Steel trot to join her littermates in their playful assault on Rickon. Their pack was home again.

 


	16. Chapter 16

Arya was loath to leave Nymeria’s side all day, though she was competing in the races. So Sansa found herself on the high rise surrounded by direwolves. Ghost sat to her side, Steel was quietly at her feet, while Rickon sat on the floor with Winter and Shaggy. The others were quite amazed by the direwolves’ sudden presence. Though Daenerys was hardly surprised.

 

“When I burned my first husband on his funeral pyre, I knew that my eggs and I had to burn with him. The bond is strong. They call to you when it is time.”

 

Tyrion was mightily impressed, though wary of Nymeria. “Is that not the wolf rumored to have _eaten_ men in the Riverlands?” Sam barked out a laugh at this, tweaking Ghost’s ears affectionately as he passed.

 

“They’ll only eat ya if they don’ like ya, milord.”

 

Tyrion winced at Nymeria’s grimace when he got too close to Sansa, “That is _not_ comforting Maester Tarly.” Though Sansa chuckled at his deep frown when Little Sam and Mance rushed up on the platform to pet and hug Nymeria, who licked their chubby faces and wagged her tail. “Although, it is evidently not an issue of _size.”_

 

The foot race was first, as it would take longer to tack everyone’s horses. Many of the men preferred to run in their smallclothes and slippers made for such an event. Arya, however, ran in her breeches and tunic with her feet bared. When the race began, she shot quickly ahead of the others, maintaining quite the lead as she was much slighter and far faster than most of the men. Though, they gave her wide berth. As she started to run, Nymeria leapt from the high rise and sped through the crowd to catch up to her mistress and run alongside her. This did not give her any undue advantage, but the others did veer quickly away.

 

Arya won by a large margin. As she crossed the finish line, she reached and smoothly leapt onto Nymeria’s back. Arya was still as slight and small as ever, so the direwolf carried her easily to the platform. The crowd cheered for her, excited by Nymeria’s presence and the little display of pageantry. A song would be written later by a man in attendance, about the wolf who came home to her pack and the little wolf woman. Arya came to the high rise for her laurel still astride Nymeria and breathing heavily. She accepted the applause, but ducked Sansa’s joking attempt for a kiss which was much appreciated by their audience.

 

Aegon won the horserace with Arya and Elia Sand quick on his tail. Jon technically came in fourth, but laughingly told them they were even in victories anyway. When Arya and Elia presented themselves to the royal party, Dany was quick with her praise and quick to ask after Elia’s mother.

 

“She was very pleased to have been invited, Silver Queen,” Elia said bowing deeply to Dany, “But since the death of my father,” and Sansa did not miss the glare shot in Tyrion’s direction, “Trips north of Dorne have been…difficult.”

 

“He was a good man, your father,” Tyrion said loudly, “Twice as fierce as his reputation and the bravest man I’ve ever met. It was a damn shame how things turned out, but he had his revenge in the end.”

 

Elia sneered, “As did I and my sisters, when the Mother of Dragons took the Iron Throne. We each sunk a spear into the half-life’s body and rent him to shreds.”

 

“Cheerful Elia,” Arya said with a sardonic scowl, “Really cheerful. Of all the things to say in front of my lady sister before her wedding.” The others laughed softly as the Sand Snake’s face fell in confusion.

 

“Why?” she asked sincerely, cutting a glance at Sansa, “Is she squeamish?”

 

“Not half so much as my sister believes,” Sansa interposed smoothly with small frown. She lifted her chin. “I am glad to hear you had your chance to avenge your father. At least when you were presented with the opportunity, you were able to do so yourself instead of by proxy.”  Tyrion whispered her name in warning but was ignored. “Gregor Clegane was no friend to anyone present here. He would have murdered my soon to be good-brother in his crib were he not outsmarted.  He was a mad dog that needed to be put down. He deserved every ounce of pain you, your father, and your sisters gave him.”

 

“I quite agree, your grace,” Elia said with a smooth bow. When she went to rejoin her sister on a lower dais, where Tyene Sand sat with her husband, Raymund Tyrell, Sansa saw the Lady Lance speak lowly to her. The favorite cousin of the Queen of Dorne turned and made eye contact with Sansa, nodding her deference. Sansa nodded right back. As the Greyjoys were aligned with the North, the Dornishmen aligned with King’s Landing. Winterfell and Sunspear had very little to do with one another, but Sansa felt she would have been remiss not to build a relationship with such a valuable player. There would come a day that Arianne Martell would not be content to play second fiddle to a Queen in the North, a bond of respect could only prevent that and serve Sansa’s interests in the south. She nearly laughed outright. Petyr would have been proud.

 

*

 

The next day was the team battle. Both King Aegon and Jon sat out, claiming that they would have undue advantage fighting together and it would be unseemly for them to lead armies, even mock ones, against each other. Arya also declined to participate, since, as she put it, she worked alone. The celebrants and bystanders were surprised by a visit from Viserion, who had to be soothed and gentled by Aegon before he settled into a field behind the high rise. Viserion had bonded quickly to Aegon in Dorne and Drogon ever heeded his own mistress’ call. There still remained Rhaegal, though Jon was resistant to his aunt’s request to bond with him. He was not a Dragon, but a wolf, and he had a burnt hand to prove it. The young Dragon Queen had sadly admitted that Rhaegal should have been for her son, Rhaego. The big green beast would simply have to wait for another dragonrider to be born. With Steel ensconced in her lap, Sansa wondered if it would be her child.

 

The teams were mixed half and half between North and South. They were given the whole of the morning to confer and make their plans. Which Sansa was grateful for because she got to spend more time with her pack. The whole pack, direwolves included. Jon had set Sam to task, trying to learn if it were possible for a warg to enter the mind of a human. Though Sam had hesitated, he came immediately to Sansa early that morning, relaying what he had seen in Queenscrown.

 

“Hodor?” she echoed, “He warged into Hodor. That makes sense I think. Hodor, he...he wasn’t right exactly. There was an accident when he was a boy…”

 

“Then it stands to reason that he could reach Rickon.”

 

“But _where_ is he?”

 

“That I don't know. If he is as...as powerful as I think he is, then we may never find him.” This was not an encouraging thought for her.  Though, she thought it best that Sam not tell Jon everything he knew. It would only hurt him to know that Sam had withheld for so long.

 

“Tell him what you discover from your books. I shall fill in the rest.”

 

So, without being weighed down by the heaviness of Bran’s absence, Sansa, Jon, Arya, Rickon, and the five direwolves spent that third morning in her solar, huddled up near the hearth. Arya brushed out Nymeria, which she hadn't done since she was a pup. Ghost sprawled out for petting and treats while Steel and Winter climbed on him. Rickon spent his time warging in and out of Shaggy, exasperating Sansa to no end. But with Jon pressed up against her side, heavy and tired and so happy, she couldn’t hold onto her irritation for long.

 

Asha had spent the morning with the Targaryens getting to know Viserion and how the dragon-rider bond worked. She laughingly informed Sansa on the high rise before the battle that there was no logic to it. The dragons were like giant, murderous babies who preferred their one person to anything else. Dany sheepishly admitted that it was probably true.

 

From the high rise, the kings sat with their queens and council and loudly commentated on everything the participants were doing wrong. Sansa and Dany, flanking the pair of them, shot each other knowing, exasperated looks, though Asha made her opinion known just as noisily. The only thing that distracted them was Nymeria’s annoyed huffs or Viserion ducking his head in whenever Aegon got too agitated. Lady Mormont came by the high rise to see the direwolf pups and Sansa was out of her seat almost immediately, calling to Dorin to fetch another chair. Dany was bemused by Sansa’s reaction until they were properly introduced.

 

“Your grace, allow me to introduce one of the greatest friends of House Stark, Lady Lyanna Mormont of Bear Island. Lady Lyanna, her grace Daenerys Stormborn, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Mother of Dragons and the First Men.”

 

Dany startled, “You are Ser Jorah’s lady cousin.” Sansa smiled at her beautiful sister queen. Even she could see how much Dany loved and admired Jorah Mormont, though Sansa’s father misliked him a good deal. She thought of the mark which branded his face, thought of the things he had done to restore himself to Dany’s good favor. It reminded her so much of Jaime that she ached, causing Steel to whimper, and Jon to grow concerned. She merely stroked the side of his face with a smile, her slight nod telling him she didn’t wish to speak of it.

 

Lyanna dipped her head and curtsied to the queen, “Jorah is my cousin, though he made poor choice of a wife.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

“I think you must be a wise woman in true,” the young Lady mused as she stroked Winter’s downy head. “To have returned a Stark to us. I should so have hated to lose my beautiful island to your dragons.”

 

“I should have hated to take it from you,” Dany answered honestly. The two shared a small smile before they were interrupted by Jon’s chuckling.

 

“Does something amuse you, nephew?”

 

“I was only thinking, your grace, that Ramsay Bolton was lucky Stannis Baratheon got to him first. Among the women here, there’d not be a scrap of him left.”

 

“And if there were,” Tyrion added, “I'm entirely certain that Viserion would have eaten it.” Behind them Aegon laughed heartily as the dragon huffed in Tyrion’s face, blowing back his hair and making the Royal Hand go rigid in fear, frozen in place as he reached out to pat the beast’s snout. Lady Lyanna gasped, awed at being so close, and Aegon beckoned her over to introduce them. Ghost huffed and dropped his head to the floor sulkily.

 

“Big baby,” Jon muttered, rolling his eyes at the wolf’s jealousy. In recompense, Sansa reached down to scratch behind his big ears and coo at him. Jon had only a moment to complain that she was spoiling him before a great ruckus on the field drew his attention and his, along with Asha’s, ire. Evidently, Jon and the Ironborn Queen had wagered the outcome of the battle with Aegon and Tyrion. It seemed the latter’s team now had the advantage.

 

“Oh goodie,” Tyrion said gleefully, grabbing his wine and flinging himself in his seat. “I do love a bet gone right.” Upon further explanation, Sansa swatted at Jon’s arm.

 

“What did you do?”

 

“Firstly? Ow. Second, Egg started it and it was Asha’s idea.” Both abused him for selling them out. Sansa glared until he broke. “It may or may not have to do with naming children.” She cocked a brow even as Dany rounded on Aegon.

 

“What names?” the Dragon queen demanded snappishly.

 

Tyrion was snickering, “Their _own_.” The two women looked at him as if he were mad. “You know, swapping?” Their confusion turned to disgust.

 

“ _Jon_ is so common!” Dany shouted as Sansa growled out, “No son of mine is going to be nicknamed _Egg_.”

 

“No offense,” they said to their respective parties before glaring back at their respective men. Aegon caved first with a wince.

 

“We shall think of something else?”

 

“You’d better,” Sansa snapped at Jon, her tone altogether different from the other day. The half- brothers shared a look of trepidation which sent Asha and Tyrion to snickering again.

 

Sansa was gratified to know that Brienne was on the victorious team, though it meant Jon and Asha lost their wager. Dany, however, threatened them all with some gruesome Dothraki custom if anyone’s future child had anything less than a suitable, appropriate name. She glared at her nephew and husband in turn, who lifted their hands in defeat. Though even Sansa could see the way Jon’s eyes danced merrily, and she came to the conclusion that neither man had intended to go through with it. The lightheartedness was tempered somewhat by Sansa’s understanding of Daenerys’ possible infertility. Either it was a rumor or she simply hadn’t told her husband-nephew yet. She misliked both ideas intensely.

 

She put those thoughts aside, however, when Brienne approached the high rise. Quick to her feet, she went to kiss her lady knight on the cheek and congratulate her on her victory. Brienne flushed head to toe and claimed their win had more to do with good, solid leadership instead of any individual skill. Tyrion laughed outright saying that she was far too modest. Sansa privately agreed, but Dany narrowed her eyes at him.

 

“Lady Brienne does her mistress credit by taking part in the battle. And where might Ser Bronn be?” she queried as if she already knew the answer.

 

Tyrion sighed, “Bronn is likely to be in Wintertown. Keeping the whores’ beds warm while the paying customers are away.”

 

“I have told you time and again to find a more suitable head of guard,” Dany susurrated agitatedly. There was a squawking reply from Viserion who, though bonded to Aegon, knew very well who his mother was.

 

“Oh, Bronn is quite suitable, you grace, and will protect me to the bitterest end. Provided that I place a large sack of gold well between me and that end.” Sansa laughed silently at Dany’s scowl.

 

“Sounds like a sellsword,” Jon mused even as he used his foot to play with Shaggy. But it was not Tyrion who answered.

 

“He is,” Sansa said, not pausing even for the briefest of moments to consider the context of her answering Jon’s comment. He looked over at her with no small amount of confusion. Sansa pulled Steel tighter into her grip. “He was with us in King’s Landing,” she offered quietly. Jon’s eyes widened dramatically and his nostrils flared.

 

“You protected her with a _sellsword_?” he demanded hotly, looking furious. Sansa grabbed for his hands with hers, thinking that her touch might prevent him from some foolhardy overreaction. Not that Tyrion ever did a thing to help himself.

 

“You know technically, he was a knight. A terrible one, and he sold me out to my bitch of a sister, but a knight nonetheless. Furthermore, he is now a lord. Only by using loathsome tactics in a duel, but still a lord. Does no one remember this?” Tyrion looked around for support but found none. He tossed his hands in the air. “He named his son after me, for gods’ sake!”

 

“Bastard son,” Dany corrected sardonically, looking at Sansa with an arched brow. “His _wife’s_ bastard.” Sansa cringed. Poor Bronn. He was a…okay sort. _Black-hearted rogue_ was how Tyrion had always described him, but in true he was very fond of his former employer and had taken good care of her during those mad times. And Sansa couldn’t help it, she giggled.

 

“Well I’m glad someone finds this funny,” Tyrion grumbled mutinously.

 

“I am so _sorry_ , milord,” she said with all the sincerity she could muster. “But four years ago we were married and framed for murder of the king. And now we sit here together, you the Royal Hand and me a Queen, the day before my wedding to my half-brother turned cousin, with a dragon at our backs and a pack of direwolves at our feet! I can only imagine what your sister would say to us now.” He stared at her for a long moment before a smile wrench from his lips. Tyrion threw his head back in riotous laughter, making Sansa break out into giggles as well.

 

“They have gone mad,” Dany muttered over to Jon. “The both of them.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

*

 

Jon and Sansa did not stay long at the feast that evening, nor did they escape to the godswood. Instead, they took Ghost and Steel and went into Jon’s chambers, sitting cross legged on the bed while Sansa groomed a sleepy Steel and attempted to do the same for Ghost. He submitted to her attentions for a while before he moved huffily to the other side of the bed. Jon laughed at her disappointment. They talked long about the past, about what they remembered of their childhood. Jon had very different versions of her same stories, an outsider’s perspective that had her blushing and giggling at how awful she’d been to everyone. They traded kisses, some long and probing, some quick and chaste. It had them giddy and smiling at each other like lovesick fools, and Sansa couldn’t remember a sweeter time in her life.

 

They were soon joined by Rickon with Shaggy quick at his heels. Rickon tossed his squealing pup onto the bed and clambered after him and demanded stories of Jon. Of course, he couldn’t deny the boy, considering that he’d spent so little time with him over the course of the week. Sansa settled in to hear for the hundredth time about the first time Jon had seen Drogon, how Dany looked sitting on his back, how he’d directed her to kill the Night’s King. He told Rickon, again, how he had battled the wights with a blade of frozen fire and Ghost at his side. He talked about the burning of the Wall. He was nearly finished when a voice called out to them from Jon’s solar. They had left all the doors open to prevent any misunderstandings. Arya ducked her head through the doorway as Nymeria shot past her with Winter by the scruff to leap atop the bed next to Ghost.

 

“There you are!” Arya laughed, “I thought I might find you here.” She came in and climbed onto the bed with them too, sprawling out and taking up too much room, using Nymeria as a pillow. “Everyone keeps asking me where you are as if I’m your handmaiden. Why is it that Brienne and Davos can sneak out and enjoy themselves, but _I’m_ supposed to be babysitting the two of you?” They laughed at her indignity, telling her that she was the worst handmaiden in the Seven Kingdoms. She brought a theatrical hand to her breast.

 

“Thank the gods!” she responded, as if it were a true concern. As Rickon drowsed against Jon, the three of them talked about old times, when they had all scrambled into that same bed as children. When the night was too dark, or the storm too loud, the Stark children would sneak into their parents’ chambers to huddle together. When they were small, even Jon was allowed in. Not even a jealous Catelyn Stark was as cruel as all that. Their father would hold Jon while their mother held Robb, or any one of the number of children as they came along. As they grew and became too many, they would go to Robb’s chambers. He had the biggest bed of all of them, and shared a solar with Theon and Jon. Arya would run to Sansa, and they would go collect Jon who knocked on Theon’s door. When they went to Robb, he would always sit up with a scowl on his face, auburn curls in wild disarray, and flop back to his pillows with a groan. That was their invitation to pile in, much to Robb’s grumbling protests. They would stay there all the night, talking and teasing and drifting off to sleep. Which was exactly how their mother or septa would find them in the morning. That is also how Davos found the Starks and their wolves the morning of the wedding.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's conversations before the wedding.

After making Rickon eat, and sending Jon and Arya back to bed, Sansa, Brienne, and several of the household staff took food into Wintertown and some of the closer villages. With Dany and her guests’ generosity, there was more than enough to feed all invited to the wedding feast. Sansa was afraid the food left over from the week would rot before anyone could eat it. _Besides_ , she thought as she passed bread and packaged meats to the smiling smallfolk, _is it not a blessing to share your good fortune?_ Margaery Tyrell had impressed upon her once the importance of earning the love of the people, not just nobles and their households, but the people who served them and lived in their towns.  Brienne said the Seven would bless a union built on kindness and good works. Sansa hoped she was right in that.  It hurt how much she missed Margaery's kindnesses sometimes. Ambitious as she was, keen as she was, she had given Sansa hope when all was dark. She prayed the girl had found some peace.

 

Delivering the food took up a good portion of the day and distracted her for a time, but Gilly and her handmaidens were stressed with trying to get her dressed and ready for the evening.

 

“Oh,” Sansa tsked, batting away hands that fussed over her, “Just leave my hair down, for the sake of the Seven!” Gilly beamed at her.

 

“I have the _perfect_ idea,” she said slyly.

 

They wrangled her into her gown which was downy gray brocaded velvet with blue winter roses trailing up the bodice and sleeves, which had cuffs neatly buttoned above the wrist. The collar was thick and stiff, lying flat across her chest to show off the pendant of the Stark sigil Tyrion had commissioned with silver, diamonds, and some of the Tarth sapphires, which glimmered a gray-green color. It looked remarkably similar to the Lannister pendant she had once worn. Over her shoulders she would wear her Stark cloak, newly trimmed with a bright white ermine pelt, gifted to her by the Free Folk. On the front skirts was an embellished wolf which with the flow of the gown, seemed to leap across her skirts, teeth bared and claws ready. Around her waist and along the hem, tiny wolves chasing tiny crows were stitched in a darker shade of gray.

 

It was simplistic but beautiful, just as Sansa had drawn the designs for the dressmaker Dany had insisted on lending her. And they did leave most of her hair loose, though they braided two thick tresses back around the crown of her head, strategically interweaving snowdrops. They finished the look with the circlet with the Tarth blue sapphires, at Sansa’s request, which rested within the crown of her braids. The roses on her dress matched perfectly the rich color of the sapphires, she thought. The girls applied a small amount of face paint, but Sansa couldn’t truly tolerate it anymore. Once finished, she dismissed them to attend the festivities in Wintertown, since they would not be needed again until morning. She squeezed Gilly’s hand before she left and asked her companion to check in with Brienne. The lady knight would most certainly need help getting into the gown Sansa had made for her. Gilly kissed the queen’s forehead and promised she would, and then she left.

 

For the first time in several hours, Sansa breathed deeply, steadying herself, and felt calmer for it. Her hands were too shaky to do any kind of needlework, so set to brushing out her the loose portion of her hair. She managed a few dozen strokes when Rickon knocked on her door asking for permission to enter. Rickon did not do things like this. He did not ask for entry, he did not know he had to. But he came in sedately, face calm and eyes knowing in a way she had not seen on the boy.

 

“Rickon?”

 

“Hello, Sansa.”

 

Not Rickon. She bristled, heart plummeting as understanding swept over her. She got to her feet, pulling her skirts tightly against herself like armor as her mind raced to comprehend what was happening. He stood before her as a man would, observed her with a knowing fondness that Rickon was much too little for. He regarded her as an equal.

 

“You should not wear his face like that. Tisn’t right!”

 

“I know and I am sorry to do it. But there was not much time and I did want to see you on this special day.”

 

“Where are you?”

 

Rickon’s laugh was deep and eerie, “I cannot say. For you and Jon would come charging to my rescue. And I of all do not need rescuing. Just know that I am safe and well.”

 

“Are you—?” She was afraid to ask the question, lest she received a true answer. “Will you come home?”

 

“That I do not know. I cannot see that far ahead.  Perhaps one day.” It was not what she would have wished. She wanted to hear him say he was trying his hardest, that they would all be together again and soon. She wanted, she wanted, she wanted.

 

“I miss you so much,” she said through her tears, reaching for Rickon’s hands. It was Bran who reached out and took them firmly.

 

“And I you, my sister. But I have seen all you’ve done, watched you along your way, and I am so proud of you.”

 

“How can that be? Me, who betrayed our father and married our enemies?”

 

“But you came home. You’ve rebuilt our father’s house. You’ve stitched our pack back together.”

His hands dropped to her stomach, Rickon’s bright eyes on her. “You will have a son, Sansa, a Stark trueborn.” She froze, horrified at the implication and thought to her coupling with Jon in the wood. He had...and she had taken no moon tea. She gasped, covering her mouth as shame flooded her belly, and Rickon/Bran laughed. “You cannot believe that you could love before the gods and walk away with nothing.”

 

“But—but _you_!”

 

Rickon’s face winced. “I am not so twisted as that, big sister. I did not stay to watch.”

 

“You did send Nymeria to us, though. And the pups.” He clasped his hands behind his back, a mature gesture on such a small child.

 

“Aye, as a wedding present. I thought a wolf in my stead would heal the hole I left.”

 

“But you didn’t send Summer.” She was afraid of that answer too. Afraid that he suffered as she did, as Rickon and Arya had. Losing that bond had sent Sansa adrift, lost among her dreams of courtly love and beautiful things with no reminder of her home.

 

“No, Summer is with me. My eyes and my ears south of the Wall.”

 

“So you gave us Winter.” She felt the relief wash over her like a cool cloth on a scorching day.

 

He chuckled, “I thought that whenever you said our father’s favorite saying, Jon and Arya would have to ask for clarification.”

 

Sansa smiled, “You were always too silly for words, Bran.”

 

He shook his head, “Winter is a gift for your babe. She will watch over him in my stead.”

 

“I wish you were really here.”

 

Rickon leaned forward, eyes meeting hers meaningfully, “I will always be with you. Wherever you go. You’ve only to listen.”

 

“ _Bran_ ,” she whimpered hugging him to her. Rickon accepted the embrace on his brother’s behalf and then pulled back to place a kiss on her forehead.

 

“You make a beautiful bride, Sansa Stark. Be well. Take care of our brothers and sister. Rule well.”

 

“I will Bran, I promise.”

 

Rickon’s face lit in a smile as he took a knee before her, “All hail Sansa Stark, the first of her name, Queen in the North! Long may she reign!” She called his name again, but then Rickon’s eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed on the floor. Sansa cried out, bending to cradle the boy in her arms. When he roused, he was well, but confused. She took him back to his rooms and helped him into bed. She ran her fingers through his curls and hummed _The Night that Ended_.

 

*

 

One of Dany’s Dothraki attendants came for her not long after Rickon fell asleep, saying that the queen requested an audience. So Sansa made her way to the queen’s chambers, slightly anxious in her uncertainty.

 

“Come in, Sansa,” Dany’s mellifluous voice drifted through her chambers, “Please sit.” The young queen looked troubled, brow furrowed though disguised by the curtain of her silvery hair as she finished reading a letter.

 

“Is everything alright, my lady?” Sansa asked tentatively. Her time away from King’s Landing was no small thing. Ser Jorah and Missandei were competent of course, but Sansa knew precisely how treacherous King’s Landing could be when left most vulnerable.

 

“Oh,” she scoffed lightly, “Of a sort. Jorah does not get on with Aegon’s people. As you might imagine,” she said with a sardonic lift of her light blonde brow. “Missandei is keeping me apprised, but I will need to intervene soon.”

 

“Is it so bad as that?”

 

“No.” She put the letter aside, folding her hands in her lap. “There seems to be some disagreement about Lady Alla and her family. Missandei was hoping she could get them all to communicate better. Grey Worm had some...more efficient suggestions.”

 

“He is very loyal to you.”

 

“They do not call me the Breaker of Chains for nothing.”

 

“I can only aspire to stir that kind of loyalty.”

 

Dany smirked, “Oh, I think you have more than you know.”

 

“But you did not call me here to talk of loyalty.”

 

“No,” she said, straightening in her seat, “I did not. Yesterday I realized that I had discussed many details of your marriage with Jon, but not with you.”

 

“Your grace?”

 

Her face smoothed out, “I am with child.” Sansa’s stomach dropped and she tried to stamp down her elation.

 

“That is wonderful news. The King must be so happy.”

 

“He does not know it yet. Nor will he, for some time. It is possible that the child won’t live to the birthing. It has happened before.”

 

“My mother often said that a woman loses the first of her children.”

 

“Yes, but this would not be my first. My first was taken from me by blood magic and deceit. That was the day I first learnt that the thirst for vengeance can outweigh a life debt.” Sansa waited, not sure where this was going. “I need you to know that even if this child dies in my belly and I am truly barren, I will not take your son from you.” Sansa blanched, her hands dropping to her stomach in an unconscious gesture of protectiveness. Dany dismissed this.

 

“As the Dothraki say, it is known. That you will have a son by Jon was told to me long ago on the Wall.” Oh. “He will still be my heir. However, I know what it is to lose a child. I know how it feels to see them threatened, used as pawns in a game designed by small men with small minds. When my brother threatened to cut my babe from my womb, my husband Drogo poured molten gold over his head. I can only imagine what a wolf pack would do if I threatened their cub.”

 

“Your grace,” but Dany held up a hand to stop her mouth.

 

“Should my child die, your son will come to me when he is of age and not a day before.” Sansa shivered, remembering her own trek south. “It’s not the place it was when you were a girl, Sansa. We’re building a better world. A world where the men who took your father and mother and brother from you cannot survive. I want your children to be a part of that world. I want your son to marry a Martell. I want your daughter to marry a Tyrell. I want your sister to make a wise alliance with one of the two. I want us to rule together, Sansa. You and me, Asha and Arianne. Together we are stronger than any man who’s ever sat on the Iron Throne.”

 

“With that, I do agree.”

 

“Your children will be Starks. Should the day ever come, they will also take my name and claim their birthright.” Sansa fidgeted, fingers tracing the wolf and crow intertwined on her gown.

 

“If you should have a son, and should I ever have a daughter, I would—when she was of age, I would gladly entrust her welfare to you.”

 

Dany smiled, reaching for her hands, “That is my most fervent hope. A Song of Ice and Fire.”

 

“But what will you do about the Tyrells?”

 

“Oh, I don't know. Willas needs a suitable bride. But he’s twice our age…” Sansa understood the Dragon Queen’s reticence. Already Willas Tyrell was an older man and a cripple besides. His house had been disgraced, not by his will, but through the will of his women relatives. They had butchered their chance at any potential friendship with the Targaryen queen through their manipulation of the Baratheons and Lannisters. And Margaery had married _three_ Baratheons. In name, of course, but still Baratheons. Furthermore, Petyr Baelish had implicated Olenna Tyrell in Joffrey’s murder. She would never be punished for her crimes, but it did nothing to endear her to Daenerys. _He was a child_ , Dany had told Jon, _a wretched child, but a child nonetheless. You don’t kill children, you discipline them_. And if ever there lived a mother who comprehended the necessity of disciplining her children, it was Daenerys Targaryen. Then, of course, Margaery, Loras, and their father had been burned by Cersei Lannister’s Wildfire. So the Tyrells had been scrambling to put the pieces back together since making their alliance with the Martells. All of that aside, Willas deserved some measure of happiness, to have children of his own, lest Highgarden fall to Alla and her potentially unsavory husband.

 

“He’s a kind man. You might...you might consider Myranda Royce in the Vale. She is a good girl, sensible. I know her father would be pleased.”

 

“I will consider it.”

 

“But something will have to be done about Alla,” she added earnestly. The woman wouldn’t simply stop. It wasn’t in her nature. She would play the game, as her cousin had, however it was situated until she won. _Her cousin did win_ , Sansa thought sadly, _twice_. But a stronger thought resurfaced. _And then she lost, because_ you _won_.

 

“Yes, the woman can be quite tiresome with her pleasing smiles and pretty looks. Ever the actress. Even Aegon falls for it occasionally, I believe.” She waved off Sansa’s rush of concern. “There is no romance between my husband and I. If she wants a bastard, she can have it.” Sansa thought this an unwise choice, though. She knew the Tyrells. If she bore Aegon’s bastard, she would always have a partial claim to the throne. It could not be borne. Sansa decided she would have Jon speak with Aegon. Certainly he could find a less dangerous paramour. “Still, I cannot decide what she is truly after,” Dany finished with a slight frown.

 

“Your station, your grace, your titles. Mine too. She wants to be queen. Just like her cousin.” Even if she did it through seduction and deception, Sansa thought bitterly. Women like Alla and Margaery and Cersei Lannister could never understand a woman like the Daenerys Targaryen. She didn’t simply wait for the throne to be given to her by a man, she took it from the men who would have used her to get it. Sansa knew well of Aegon’s former attitudes about his aunt, about marrying her. Everyone had truly believed that he would hold all the power, that she would stand silently at his side with her dragons and do as he bid.

 

This was not the case. Even Sansa could see that Aegon had truly come to respect his aunt-wife’s ferocity, that he understood that though he had a stronger claim and all the right features, it was Dany who inspired fealty. It was Dany who inspired love and admiration, who called men to arms who would die for her without question. Aegon was fortunate that his aunt hadn’t had him slain where he stood, that she took his counsel at all. Certainly it did not help things between him and Jon, but sibling rivalry would always come into play no matter the circumstances.

 

“Not a bid in her favor,” Dany murmured, reaching for a glass of water.

 

“The Tyrells are powerful,” Sansa conceded, because it was the truth. They inspired a lot of loyalty from the bannermen and their lands were vast and fruitful. Dany would one day have need of their food stores, and so would Sansa. “Or they were. And many people are still loyal to them. How long will you shut them out?”

 

“A while longer yet,” she confessed with a wayward shrug. It caused her braid to jostle, her obsidian ornaments flashing in the morning sunlight. “I will bring them into the fold eventually. But they have a nasty habit of backing whomever is most convenient. Doesn’t inspire confidence.”

 

“No, it does not.”

 

“I’ll let them think on that for a while, no? Make peace with them in time. But not too quickly.” She smiled. “Personally, I would prefer to burn them all out, raze their pretty gardens and let my Martell cousins have their pick of land. The only thing that truly saves them is Tyrion’s counsel. He, like most men, operates under the assumption that I have a _gentle heart_. That I would live to regret such a violent decision.” Sansa wisely said nothing. “I have killed before. I have earned my braids. And you know as well as I, Red Wolf, that girls with gentle hearts do not survive.”

 

“No,” Sansa whispered, “They do not.” And if they did live so long, they became women with stone hearts.

 

“Men take us and pawn us off, pound into us and when we quick with child they claim it their own victory. They claim the children we raise as their property to do with as they please and shunt us aside when they’ve taken all they can. They think us things, they think us weak and empty. They think us vapid as Alla pretends to be and as mad as Cersei became.” Sansa nodded, too frightened to argue. “But the game board has been destroyed. And any who mean to resurrect it will burn, Alla Tyrell included.”

 

“I wouldn’t protest, your grace.” That was certainly the truth. She and Margaery had been friends once, but the Tyrell girl would have tossed Sansa onto the pyre if it had suited her ends. A hard lesson to learn so young. No doubt, the cousin that was her handmaiden before her imprisonment would be just the same.

 

“I wish us to be partners, Sansa. I wish us to be true friends.” She examined Sansa for a short time. And Sansa examined her right back, thinking on all that she had said. Sansa had not had a true friend since Jeyne Pool. She had not tried to trust anyone outside her small circle for such a long time that she almost ached for hearing the sincerity in Dany’s voice.  A Song of Ice and Fire, Sansa repeated silently, they will write it of us one day. They will tell the story of our victories and our children.

 

“I wish that too.”

 

“Good.”

 

“There are times, Daenerys Stormborn, when I truly believe that you are the prince that was promised. Not Jon or even Aegon.”

 

Dany scoffed, “That is religion and politics. Not the truth of things.”

 

“You don’t hold to a religion?”

 

She sighed, “I hardly know what to think let alone believe. The followers of R'hllor believe me to be some kind of goddess, while my father’s religion, that of the Seven, crumbles across the Kingdom. I know nothing of the Old Religion. What I do know is that those in the south are as fickle to the Seven as you are devout to the old ones.”

 

“I confess I am grateful to be married in my father’s godswood and not a sept.”

 

“I would imagine.” She paused. “You truly are lovely. You look a proper Northern bride.”

 

Sansa blushed. “I am nervous. Which is foolish as I have been married twice before.”

 

Sympathy shone in Dany’s eyes. “Yes, I know. Aegon is my third husband as well. It is a different kind of anxiety than the first though, isn’t it? I think women must love so differently from men.”

 

She sank into her seat. “Yes, I hated Tyrion as my husband, but now we are good friends. And boorish as he was, I did like Harry in a way. He was young and arrogant, better than Joffrey at the very least.”

 

“And Jon?” She asked with a sly smile.

 

Sansa blushed again. “Different altogether. I know I have loved before, but not as I love Jon.”

 

“And yet, they love us in exactly the same way. All—” she gestured uselessly with her hands, making Sansa laugh at their mutual frustration.

 

“Yes, that is it exactly. No matter how we see them or what we think of them, they all feel in the same way.”

 

“Too much, I think.”

 

“Far too much,” Sansa agreed morosely, thinking of Sandor and Petyr and Harry. “As if we are pure enough to save them. As if we hold the power to forgive them.”

 

But Dany laughed, “They act like children and then demand our attention and our flattery. Drogo was never so foolish, I think.” She shrugged. “All he wanted was gold and horses, not a wife.”

 

“But you loved him.”

 

She smiled sadly, “More than I will ever love a man again.”

 

“I am sorry for your loss. I know how it feels to lose family…”

 

Dany put a hand over hers, “Yes, but we also know how it feels to regain a family, do we not?” She thought about seeing Jon and Arya for the first time in the Vale. About Davos putting Rickon back in her arms. The rush of knowing that Bran was alive and safe.

 

“It is more wonderful than I have ever prayed for.” She smiled but they were interrupted by a breathless serving girl.

 

“Forgive me, Khaleesi, but Drogon has returned.”

 

Dany’s face sparkled with joy and she squeezed Sansa’s hand. “A mother’s work is never finished. I shall see you in the godswood this evening.” They kissed cheeks and Dany rushed out the door to her baby.

 


	18. Chapter 18

Later that evening, after twilight fell over the Northlands, Jon Targaryen and Sansa Stark were married in the godswood of their ancestors. Their ceremony was small. Arya and Rickon, Dany and Aegon, Gilly and Brienne, Tyrion and Davos, Theon, with Sam serving as Maester, all carrying the torches to light her way. Arya led her to the altar. Sam, knowing the ritual, officiated.

 

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?”

 

“Sansa, of House Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Queen in the North, comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?" Arya recited back. This was a complicated question with a complicated answer. They had discussed it at length and decided that it was up to Jon, whatever he felt most suitable considering the witnesses were so few. He wore a resplendent Targaryen cloak.

 

“Jon Snow, of House Targaryen, heir to the Seven Kingdoms. And who gives this woman away?”

 

 “Arya, of House Stark, her sister.”

 

“Lady Sansa, will you take this man, my brother, Jon Snow of House Targaryen, for your husband?”

 

Sansa stepped forward. “I take this man.” They came together, hands clasped to kneel before the heart tree. They bowed their heads in prayer, letting the silence of their audience wash over them. Sansa thought of Bran and sent him her love, squeezing Jon’s hand she did. Then they stood together, and Jon removed her gray Stark cloak from her, passing it to Arya, and placed the Targaryen cloak around her shoulders. Their kiss was brief and sweet and easy. She smiled into it and coyly pressed a slower one, eyes wide open, to his lips. Then it was finished. Sansa turned to accept hugs and kisses from Arya, Brienne, Gilly and Tyrion. Jon shook hands with Aegon and Theon, was clapped on the back by Davos, and then swept Rickon up in his arms again. Dany came to stand by him, adjusting the boy’s cloak.

 

“Once a Snow, always a Snow, hm?” she asked playfully.

 

“I came into the world a Snow. Even had my true father claimed me, I would have been a Sand or a Waters, maybe a Storm. That we met and you claimed me is a happy accident. I’ll take your name and wear your colors, but that’s what I’ll always be. A Snow.”

 

“A Stark,” she corrected firmly.

 

“Aye, that too.” She smiled that pretty closed mouth smile at him, her dimples peeking through as Aegon claimed her arm. Sam came to clap him on the back, so Jon set Rickon down and they embraced. The boy ambled over to his sister’s side, and the two of them turned to watch Sansa with the others. She looked over and smiled, but was pulled by a question from Gilly.

 

“Seems your Watch has begun again, brother.”

 

“Aye,” Jon agreed quietly, “But this one will be far more enjoyable.”

 

“Perhaps less fatal, too?”

 

He tilted his head in feigned skepticism, “I don't know about that, Maester Tarly.”

 

“Gilly’s pregnant,” he told Jon in a hushed voice. Jon beamed putting a heavy hand to his friend’s shoulder.

 

“That’s good.”

 

“Do you think? It’s not exactly _normal_ for a Maester…”

 

Jon snorted, “Nothing at Winterfell is normal anymore. Your babe will be most welcome and most loved.” Sam looked like he was going to cry. “The Keep could use a few dozen children running amuck. It’ll keep us on our toes until the next war.”

 

“Gods prevent it.”

 

“Gods prevent it.”

 

Gilly came over to pull Sam away to say goodnight to the boys before the feast began, and Sansa went to Jon, now with a bouquet of winter roses in her arms. Arya came just behind holding Rickon’s hand and at the sound of a puppy-ish whimper, Jon turned to see Ghost and Nymeria emerge from the wood with the pups. They, too, had witnessed the ceremony. Ghost had Steel by the scruff and set her down at Sansa’s feet. With a bright smile, Sansa leaned to pet him, and then lifted her icy gaze to Jon.

 

“Are you ready?”

 

He sighed, stretching out to take her hand, “As I will ever be.”

 

Sansa smiled at him again but turned her head back to the heart tree, “Goodnight, Bran,” she whispered. Then, with their hands clasped between them, the Starks and the direwolves made their way to the crypt.

 

It was not traditional, exactly, to visit the dead on the day of your wedding, but for this particular family it was important. For so long the pack had been divided, and all Sansa wanted was one small semblance of a reunion. Jon was helpless against such a request. The crypt was cleaner than it had been in years. Shockingly, not even the Boltons had dared to enter the sacred space, though Jon was certain Ramsay would have desecrated it once he knew every last Stark was dead, himself included. The cobwebs and the vermin had been cleared out, the statue ms cleaned and polished. Sansa had commissioned three more done, for Ned, Catelyn, and Robb. As they came to stand, them four living before the four stone faces of the dead, they lit the candles as their father had taught them. Sansa placed a rose at the feet of her parents and brother, and then placed the rose crown atop Lyanna Stark’s head.

 

Jon had not ventured often into the crypt as a boy. He always felt that it was not his place. Even after learning his heritage, knowing his mother’s likeness remained in that dark place, he had avoided it. He had stayed away because he wasn’t entirely sure that he wanted to accept everything he had been told. He didn’t want to _see_. But standing before the woman that was his mother, the rough likeness of her living self, it crashed down hard on him.

 

“Father used to say I looked like her,” Arya whispered reverently, staring even as Jon did.

 

“I was always jealous of that,” Sansa admitted feebly. “Father loved her so much and I hated that he saw nothing of her in me.”

 

“He did,” Arya countered, “He would tell me that even though she could ride and shoot better than most Northmen, she loved songs and poetry. That she loved flowers and beautiful gowns even if she wanted to carry a sword.” Jon took Sansa’s hand in his again, hoping to give her some comfort as she fought off the emotion that would sweep through her for hearing all that. Eddard Stark had loved his daughters equally for different reasons. He’d never thought Sansa silly, and he’d always aimed to let Arya do as she pleased. Jon was saddened to know that he’d never had a chance to explain that to his eldest daughter. His thoughts were interrupted by Rickon’s babyish whispering.

 

“Arya, that lady looks like Jon.”

 

Jon’s chest tightened and he inhaled sharply to stop the tide that threatened to break him. Because Rickon was right. He had only seen the statue of her a time or two, but now, standing before her as a man, he could plainly see the same features on her face which stared back at him from looking-glasses. The same nose, the slant of her eyes, the fullness of her mouth. Sansa confessed that she had heard rumors about her aunt’s beauty while in King’s Landing, that she had been a _wild thing_. Jon thought it no coincidence that there was very little of his father in him.

 

“Come on,” Arya said gently, putting a hand to Sansa’s arm. “Dany will feed me to Drogon if I don’t get you to the feast on time.” She took Rickon’s hand and they started to go. Sansa went to follow, but paused when Jon hesitated. Wrapping her hands around his larger one, she leaned into his side, and pressed her nose to his shoulder.

 

“I only ever wanted to make them proud,” he told her softly, his voice choking with the unshed tears in his eyes. He couldn’t seem to make himself look away.

 

“They would be proud, Jon. You’ve kept your promises.”

 

“Even your mother?” he asked with a self-deprecating tone of humor. He wanted to throw himself at Catelyn Stark’s feet and beg her. For what? Love? Approval? Forgiveness? Jon didn’t know. He looked at Sansa only when her hands cupped his face and turned it. Though he had a hard time meeting her eyes. She didn’t force it.

 

“You stole me from men who would have kept hurting me. You cleared the path so we could take back our home. You gave me what should have been rightfully yours. You helped make Winterfell our home again. If she isn’t proud, well, then, I am ashamed of her.” She finished her speech with that same ferocity she’d shown when battling Tormund, when handling her bannermen and the repairs. Jon offered her a pained smile and kissed her softly, gently butting his forehead against hers before they separated.

 

“Let’s to the living,” she whispered, “And leave the dead to rest.” Jon followed his bride out from the crypt and didn’t once look back. Neither noticed that as they entered the Hall to join their guests, snow had begun to fall.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's probably one or two more updates after this (depending on how I split things up). Hope you all enjoy!

Several hours later, Dany sat at the head table, just above her Northern people. Their guests continued to bring wedding gifts, books and fine fabrics, precious stones and jewelry for the Queen. Dany knew Sansa would sell most of those valuables immediately, in order to trade for materials and supplies for the coming Winter. Always prepared, these Starks. For them, Winter was always coming.  Watching the newly married couple spin each other on the dance floor, she saw how comfortable they were with one another, how easily they moved together. Who were they trying to fool by pretending that they had not already been intimate? She smirked seeing her nephew abandon even the pretense of dance to steal kisses from his beatific bride. The Dragon Queen could hardly begrudge them that small happiness, they deserved a soft chapter in their story after all. Wordlessly, she toasted them at a distance, drinking down her water-cut wine. 

 

“A well-executed scheme, your grace, a magnificent bout of subterfuge,” Tyrion said, hefting himself up into the seat beside her. She watched him with a wry grin and the sort of self-satisfaction that came only from playing a game of cyvasse with yourself.

 

“I told you it would work. He needed only a nudge.” Dany watched her Royal Hand scratch the back of his neck sheepishly. ”Though, when I said _nudge_ , I did not mean for you to torment him for months on end.” She was referring, of course, to the sly conversations and several well-timed letters. She had known that it would take her nephew some time to adjust to the idea. And if Arya’s reports to Tyrion were true, then Jon had spent most of that time courting her. Sansa Stark deserved courting after such a life. Dany’s chest clenched as her mind’s eye drifted to Drogo, of her sun and stars, of their short time together.

 

When the question of Sansa's marrying was first broached by Tyrion in the early months of her reign, she'd needed only a moment to make a decision. Though, it was not without problems. The first problem had been that she very little understanding of Sansa as a woman. Getting her to the capital, even for three days, had been trying. But her arrival is what brought certainty. Dany had seen the overprotectiveness, the jealousies, the devotion from the first. Jon had always strained himself to conceal it, but a woman knows these things. Dany had only needed to see their reunion in the bailey of the Red Keep to know that there could be love there. It was pure coincidence that his marriage to Sansa was precisely what she needed, what was in the best interest of both kingdoms. She could have bullied him, of course. Which, she had, but only a little. She could have told him from the beginning that there simply was no one else suitable to serve as Sansa’s consort. But he would have thought her scheming, trying to keep control of Sansa through him. Oh, certainly she would keep tabs on them; the South would always have vested interests in the North, but Dany had no designs for another merger. The only true question was how to move Jon to his own action. Tyrion provided ample motivation.

 

Tyrion chuckled awkwardly, splaying his hands, “I admit I had too much fun with it. King Jon is…so _easy_ to provoke.”

 

Dany would never understand her Royal Hand and nephew’s relationship to one another. There was a bond there, to be sure. A grudging respect forged from mutual understanding. Something on Jon’s end must have changed when he heard the youngest Lannister had married his half-sister, only to worsen when he learned she had been implicated in his crimes against the crown. Still, they had formed a tentative truce, and that was really all the young queens could ask for.

 

“Lucky for you he never discovered that you had already annulled the marriage when we arrived in King’s Landing,” she mused drolly. A task remarkably easy to accomplish since Cersei Lannister had toppled the entirety of the Faith with her father’s stores of Wildfire. An inspired but repulsive move, truly. Executing the woman had been a pleasure.

 

“Yes, well,” he said slowly, his face flaming red as he poured himself wine, “I harbored no illusions about our relationship. Given the circumstances, it was the only thing to do.”

 

“You are a good man, Tyrion Lannister.” She smirked mischievously. “No matter what they say about you.”

 

His jaw gaped open, offended to the core, as she took a sip of her wine, “And what _exactly_ do they say about me, your grace?”

 

*

 

As Tyrion was claiming to his queen that he was, in fact, a pillar of virtue, Tormund snatched Sansa from Jon’s arms to dance a round with her. Jon laughed at her petulance, especially since Tormund was an animated dancer and could probably throw her a league or two. It had grown late, the children were abed and more wine was served than food. The minstrels interspersed traditional songs with dances, giving everyone a chance to rest. So by the end of the Northern Reel with Tormund, which was long and strenuous and had her laughing breathlessly, the minstrels began to sing _The Dance of Dragons_ in honor of their Southron queen. Tormund spun Sansa one last time to sit her at a table, effectively removing her from the main crush of people, and threw himself into a seat right next to her.

 

“Are you sure you still want to marry the wee cunt?” Tormund asked, swiping a horn of ale from the table, substituting it for water while he tried to get his breath back. Sansa snorted at his impertinence and stole the ale from his grasp, downing it before he could take it back. He made only a short noise of protest, but looked suitably impressed.

 

“I’ve already married him,” she shot back, slamming the horn down in a mockery of what he might have done. His belly laugh brought a smile to her face even as her head swam from too much alcohol. He jabbed a finger in her direction.

 

“You’ve not married ‘im til he’s stole ya. That is the only real way to make an accord.”

 

She giggled at his backward logic, “But if I want it, then why can’t I just say so?”

 

Tormund spluttered, trying to give an answer other than “that’s how we’ve always done it,” but it only made her laugh all the harder. She was so amused that at first, she did not notice the group of men approaching her. Then she heard the cheer go up for the bedding. _The bedding!_ They called out _The bedding!_ And Sansa’s belly flip flopped, remembering her last wedding, and how awful that experience had been. Among the group coming to fetch her were Cerwyn’s sons, Karstarks, some Flints and Westerlings. Thankfully, Lady Mormont looked repulsed and shot glares across at her bears to make them stand down. Mormont men were unreasonably large and the idea of it sent Sansa to shaking. Dany and Asha looked disgusted, and sent forth their Queensguards to ward off unruly behavior. Unfortunately, the men coming for Sansa were so drunk that they’d forgotten themselves, and possibly the repercussions for touching a queen, and bore down on her as she sat, grabbing her hands to pull her from her seat. Tormund kicked aside a lad who was drunkenly reaching for Sansa’s hair and with a growl stood to shove back someone who went for her waist.

 

“Which one do I gut first, Red?” he asked, snarling at the men as she scrambled to push hands away from her.

 

“Tormund, _don’t_ —” Sansa was unable to finish her reprimand because there was a flash of black and an eerie _crack_ , and suddenly Cledger Cerwyn was on the floor bleeding profusely from his nose. Jon straightened with a snarl, shaking out his hand and putting himself between Sansa and the drunken men. She squeaked distressingly loud when Tormund slammed a hand into another man’s throat when he got too close. Jon’s back up until the bitter end.

 

“Next man to touch my wife gets the same!” he barked out, sending the men reeling back and away from him. “There will be no bedding tonight!” Sansa moved forward to touch his arm and felt the way he was vibrating with anger. She hadn’t seen him take much to drink, so his outburst was, frankly, astounding. She tried to get his attention, but he was far too busy glaring down the men who thought they could very possibly fight their way through. No one was thinking very sensibly. Adrenaline was still pumping through Sansa’s veins, her conditioned terror having risen up to claw at her throat, but she also felt the mad urge to laugh. Thankfully they had decided to keep the direwolves in Arya’s room and the pups in Rickon’s. The last thing she needed was Ghost and Nymeria ripping off the faces of her bannermen’s kin.

 

“My lord,” she said insistently, tugging on his sleeve, “ _Jon_!” He finally whipped his head around to look at her, color high in his cheeks, and she swore that his eyes glowed violet. Sansa shivered, wetting her lips and clenching her fingers under his glower. Their eye contact broke suddenly when he bent, put an arm around her waist, and lifted her to his shoulder. Sansa squawked, blood rushing downward, and she tried to strangle her reaction as her feet kicked out off the floor.

 

“ _JON!”_ she shrieked in outrage, “Honestly?!” Her protests were drowned out by the cheering and laughing from their guests. Jon didn't pay them, or her for that matter, any heed as he headed for the door.

 

“Tormund!” he called over his shoulder, “Gut any man that follows!”

 

“With pleasure, _your grace_!” he called back glibly with a deep swan bow. From Jon’s shoulder, Sansa saw the Free Man bent in laughter as he helped Cledger Cerwyn to his feet, clapping him roughly on the back so that he lurched forward.

 

“And that, _boy_ ,” he said roughly shaking the man’s shoulders, “is how you steal a woman!” The Free Folk around him laughed uproariously as the Hall’s doors slammed shut behind them.

 

Sansa scowled, thoroughly irritated with all of them. This was entirely improper. What would Daenerys think? _She married a Dothraki warlord_ , her brain grumbled, _she’s seen worse_. Still, it wasn’t exactly Sansa’s idea of a good time. Or dignified _at all_. She was the queen, for the sake of the Seven! He took her the long way around, going outside pointlessly, and she shivered, thinking that he was such an arse. Surprisingly, once they had cleared a bit of the courtyard, Jon set her back to her feet, straightening her gown as best he could. She kept her mouth tightly shut, glaring at him until he looked at her. When he did, he choked a laugh.

 

“I am so glad that you find this all so diverting,” she drawled, crossing her arms over her chest. “You do know my cloak is in there still. And it’s _freezing_ out here!” He kissed her forehead around a chuckle.

 

“Sorry, love, had a point to make.”

 

“A completely _brutish_ point,” she snipped back, slapping his stomach as he tried to put an arm around her. He let out a laughing grunt, but still pulled her to him, threading her arm through his.

 

“Aye, but at the very least, nobody lost any clothing and I didn’t have to kill any of your bannermen for touching you.”

 

“A great boon indeed,” she groused, annoyed with herself for curling closer to his warmth. Her rancor settled somewhat though when she realized that snow was falling. It pitted in her dress and hair, fell into Jon’s lovely curls. There was a dusting of it on the ground, and the sight made her shiver. Winterfell covered in a blanket of snow on her wedding night. It was nearly perfect.

 

“Don’t be cross,” he mumbled against her temple as they walked waveringly to the Keep. She wasn’t any longer, but she figured she could keep up the pretense at least until they got to his chambers. _Their_ chambers now. She wouldn’t have any of this separate beds nonsense. Nights had been long and terrible before he returned to her, but they could only get better the closer she was to him. And besides, what if their babe needed both of them in the night? _Their babe_.

 

She hadn’t told him about Bran just yet. She wasn’t certain that she would. Would he be disappointed that she was with child so quickly? Certainly a babe could only solidify them. It would solidify Daenerys’ plans too, if her babe lived. She hadn’t told Jon of that yet either, but he didn’t need to know until the proper moment. Men were fools if they truly believed alliances were won on battlefields. They were made between mothers. Still, she had to keep up her ruse of being annoyed with him. Even if she was aroused beyond reason by his violent display. It simply wouldn’t do to let him see how much it affected her so soon into their marriage.

 

“You didn’t have to _hit_ Cledger. He’s an idiot boy, not some vicious attacker.”

 

Jon snorted, reeled back just so, “Eh, the lad can use a scar or two—” He chuckled when she scowled and started pulling away from him. “And it was for the Free Folk’s benefit, I’d have you know. They’ve been sporting about all this, we needed to include them somehow.”

 

“And you thought of all that before you attacked the poor boy?”

 

He snorted, “No, I thought of it just now to settle your feathers.”

 

“ _Jon_ ,” she sighed in exasperation, but still walking through the door he held open for her. As soon as that door shut behind them, Jon was crowding her up against the wall, his hands heavy on her waist as he pinned her. Her own hands floundered for a moment before the settled on his shoulders, keeping her balanced.

 

“You’re an idiot,” she informed him weakly, unable to look away from his lips now that she had a good view of them. But they wouldn’t have much time before Brienne came looking for them with the first rotation of guards. Brienne would trust Jon with Sansa’s safety, but only for so long.

 

“Aye,” he said ducking down the mesh their mouths together, nipping playfully, “But I’m _your_ idiot.” Sansa sighed happily when his lips settled firmly on hers, working her mouth open to smooth away her ire. He was so tender with her, so calm even when angry and aroused and wanting her.  “Snowdrops,” he said against her lips as he plucked one of the buds from her hair.

 

“Do you like them?” she asked breathily.

 

“I think I’d like to fuck you out in a field full of them. Under the stars,” he ducked his head to kiss at her pulse point. “No clothes. No cloaks. Just you, me, and whatever bloody gods choose to watch.”

 

“Jon,” she gasped against him, “This time—” She broke off with a sigh, “This time I’d like a bed.” She snagged his mouth again, sucking his lips as her hands drifted up to his neck. “I recommend you get me there.”

 

It took him a long, fumbling while, but he did.

 

Getting her out of her gown was a different matter entirely. Jon didn’t rip it like Harry had done, but carefully undid each pearl button, unbound the laces of her bodice, pulling them through each eyelet. He did it so slowly and so nimbly that Sansa could have laughed.

 

"I expected you to be more _eager,"_ she teased when he got to the third one. He lifted the bulk of her hair, winding it to place over her shoulder. Then he pressed loving kisses along the nape of her neck, his hands dropping to her waist to pull her back against him.

 

"I am," he mumbled, pushing forward to show her just how much, "But I've watched you make a dress. A lot of work to go to waste if I ruin it."

 

Sansa laughed and spun in his arms to kiss him soundly. She pulled back to see that beautiful smile on his face, the one she was seeing more and more of. And then she decided to reveal her final trick.

 

"Yes," she told him, her voice heavy and husky, "But _I_ didn’t make this dress." When he tilted his head to catch her meaning, Sansa waggled her brows and took a step back from his embrace. Then she reached around, fishing for the little knot which held the funny contraption together. She pushed it through the keyhole and pulled on the opposing strap to release it all. Just like that, all the laces loosened, including those around the remaining buttons. Sansa sedately separated the fabric at her back, easily stepping from it as it dropped from the floor. Jon stared at her standing before him in the lace trimmed smallclothes Arianne Martell had sent as a wedding gift. It was gauzy and sheer and did nothing to hide anything. Sansa felt a little silly, standing in her underthings with a crown still on her head, but it was difficult to pay attention to anything other than Jon's hungry eyes on her. She offered him a half shrug.

 

"It seems that Dany was right about professionals being useful."

 

She smiled when he swallowed thickly, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. That was right. He hadn't seen her before without a gown. It occurred to her to be nervous about her back. But then, she had seen his naked torso in the training yard. Scarred beyond repair. Scarred to death, actually. _But men are supposed to be scarred,_ her mind whispered. Well, if he saw and she ruined everything, then they would figure out. Maybe in the dark? But the one was so _deep._

 

She was interrupted by her thoughts when she saw the worried look on his face.

 

"Sansa?"

 

She shook her head, "Sorry, too much ale I think. Should we—?" She took a step toward him, reaching out for the laces on his doublet. She carefully, but somewhat more quickly, undid them, and removed it and his shirt. She felt relieved at the sight of his scars, thick and white and puckered slices of flesh. Her fingers traced over them lovingly, as if she could heal the hurt they'd caused.

 

"You've seen them before," he whispered.

 

"Yes."

 

"Do they bother you? I could—" She stopped his hands before he could reach for his discarded tunic. She leaned forward, angling her head to kiss him deeply as she reached up to slide the slivery straps of her shift from her shoulders. It slid and bunched at her waist, so she shoved it the rest of the way. Completely naked before him, she placed her hands on his and drew them to her back, settling them on the small. At first, he didn’t understand. He kissed her again and moved his hands up her back to get a better grip. As he did, he must have felt it. There was no chance of him not feeling it. He broke their kiss suddenly, pulling back to look at her with what was possibly the most heartbreaking look on his face.

 

" _Sansa,_ " he breathed out in a whine. She tried to smile and brought up a hand to stroke his beard. " _Who_?" He fumbled with his words. "Can I see?"

 

She pulled her hair back over her shoulder, "You are my husband, you can do as you wish." But he balked, muscles bunching and nostrils flaring.

 

"That is—that isn't—" He heaved a breath through his nostrils and muttered some curses she didn’t care to listen for. Then he lightly brought his hands to her face and kissed her with soft, gentle presses. He pulled back, dropping his hands to her shoulders. The room was already scorching, since the maid had kept the fires going all day so they wouldn’t need clothing for the bedding, but still his touch seemed to burn her and she shivered.

 

"Whatever they told you is a crock of shit. I've no more right to touch you than anyone else. Not unless you say so. And I damn well won't do anything you don't wish me to."

 

Hot tears pricked at her eyes, "I want you to see them." She barely managed to get the words out, her throat was so tight from trying to hold it in. He pressed a kiss to her cheek, and then reached up to remove her circlet and set it aside. To Jon, she wasn't just a queen. Always, she had been more than that to him. He took the buds in her hair out one by one, pulled the pins free, and unbound her braids. Then he led her to the bed so she could lie down. He stayed standing as she situated herself, rolling to her stomach and crossing her arms to pillow her head. He must have turned away for a moment because his sharp inhalation was delayed. He whispered her name agonizingly soft as his fingers traced the lines. She jerked, flinched, at first, but relaxed when his hand smoothed down.

 

"I'd kill them all again if I could."

 

"They're not as bad as yours," she grumbled staring off into the fire. Joffrey's men didn’t care where they hit her because she was a prisoner. Harry hit her where no one could see. It only happened a few times. Twice when he was drunk and once when she tried to run. If Petyr ever noticed them, he didn’t say a word.

 

"Sansa, look at me." It took some doing, but she managed to force herself to turn her head. Jon was crouched at the bedside, hand still heavy on her back and gaze waiting to catch hers. He looked so _defeated._ She wanted to shout at him to stop, that nothing was so horrible as that.

 

"I am a solider. A warrior. When I go into battle, when I train, I expect the scars. So does Brienne. So does Arya."

 

"But I'm a fragile little bird who needs to be kept safe in some ivory tower?" she snapped pulling back from it. He sighed. The instinctual panic surged up, and she had to fight off the strong urge to flinch, to raise her arm to protect her face. _Ruining it,_ Sansa's mind whispered, _like you ruin everything._ She reached back out, face crumpling. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean it, I just—"

 

He stopped her apology with a kiss. It was somewhere between hard and soft, and the angle was all wrong, so she grabbed his shoulders to urge him onto the bed. He took her subtle command quickly. He broke their kiss to strip from his breeches and settled on top of her, catching her lips again.

 

"You are _never_ allowed to apologize for what happened to you," he growled out between kisses. She could only whimper and clutch at him as he kissed paths to her neck, teasing before he landed on that sensitive place near her ear. "You didn’t ask for a war. You didn’t put on armor and pick up a sword to march out against another man's army. You were hidden away to be safe, to be protected, and they broke your trust." He whispered against her skin, pausing to kiss and gently bite until red blossomed where he worked. Sansa clawed at him, lifting and tightening her legs around his waist in an attempt to get him closer. He resisted, a solid weight braced above her. Instead, he kissed down her neck and her chest, along her collarbone and down, paying special attention to her teats and moaning when her nails bit into his skin.

 

"You should have been loved," he said into the skin between her breasts. "You should have been showered with kindness and adoration." He pulled himself forward to kiss her lips and his eyes twinkled mischievously down at her. "But since those fucking swine were so remiss in their duties, I shall simply have to redouble my efforts." Sansa didn't even have time to chirp out a _what_ before he heaved himself back to sit on his ankles. He ducked down, nudging her legs apart, sliding them quickly onto his shoulders.

 

" _Jon?"_ she squeaked out in a panic. She raised herself to rest on her elbows, eyes blown wide when he pressed open mouthed kisses to her inner thighs and rubbed hands along her hips and legs.

 

"Shhhh pet," he said into the crease of her thigh, "We're about to find out how sweet you are." She only really understood what he meant to do when his kisses grazed over to her mound, light against her curls, making her throb.

 

"You can't possibly—!"

 

"Sansa," he growled out, lifting his eyes to hers while he kissed her thighs. "If you suggest that those fucking cunts never did this for you even once, then this will be over quickly because I _will_ have to go find a man to kill." With a sigh, she flopped back against the furs.

 

"Shutting up now."

 

He hummed against her and then she felt his rough fingers slipping into her folds, sliding along. Sansa bucked against him, wanting more pressure. But then his fingers were spreading her apart sides and that pressure came in the form of his tongue.

 

"Ach!" she cried out and clenched her hands into the furs. His hands drifted over the sides of her hips as he licked her, and he wedged them under so he could lift her to him. He used his tongue against her, tracing shapes and flicking up at her nub which made her shout. Just when she thought she would build up to her peak, he pulled back, went lower and curled his tongue into her cunt. Sansa writhed with him as he supped on her, threading her fingers through his hair. He replaced his tongue at her numb with thumb, working her in circles in opposite time to his thrusts. Sansa was sure she would lose her mind. And then her orgasm flushed through rapid quick, so quick and so hard that it burned, and when she could see straight again, she had both hands buried in Jon's hair and his eyes were hot on her. She felt a rush of satisfaction, moving sensuously against the furs, unconsciously lifting her hips back up to him. She saw his smirk in his eyes because his lips were still between her legs.

 

"Let's switch, shall we?" he prompted huskily. And then his fingers were in her and his lips sucked her nub and Sansa had a hard time thinking after that.

 

Jon didn’t take what she called his husbandly rights that night. He had her screaming for him three more times before she needed a rest. He pulled her out of bed so they could wash themselves and eat what little food had been set out for them by a maid. They got back into bed and dozed for a while, but not an hour or two later, Jon woke her back up with his tongue and clever fingers and started the process all over again. He shocked her to the core when he rolled them so he was on his back and wrangled her so that she hung over his face. Easier on his neck he said. When she'd lost track of when she was up or down or coming back around, she blearily insisted he take something for himself. He only chuckled at her and made her peak again.

 

Eventually, she was just too sensitive and aching and she all but had to kick him away. He complained profusely, but crawled up her body to kiss her anyway. His mouth was hot and rank with her, but it melted away and she was too tired to complain overmuch.

 

"You still haven't—" she broke off with a yawn, curling into his side and nuzzling against his chest. "You haven't—" He kissed the top of her head, hauling her up more fully against him. Jon didn’t want to say it out loud. He didn’t want to admit that he had two-fold reasons for holding himself back. For one, he'd made it his mission to make her come for every time _they_ had taken from her. But, it was also a matter of easing himself into this with her. The guilt was much less if he could see it as helping her heal, giving her pleasure, instead of taking his. That he'd gotten so fucking aroused just watching her was a side note.

 

"I have. A few times." She turned her head to glare up at him in her confusion. He chuckled and kissed her wrinkled nose. "Let's just say you being happy, makes me happy." She arched a brow at him, not at all convinced. "Besides, we already consummated the marriage."

 

" _Before_ the wedding," she griped.

 

Jon smiled, threading fingers through her tangled hair, deftly separating them out. "Well as I remember it, we went before the gods, I promised to protect you, you took me, I prayed you'd be the death of me, and then I covered you with my cloak." He waggled his brows. "Sounds like a wedding ceremony to me."

 

She scoffed, "We had no witnesses!"

 

"You said it yourself, Bran could see us."

 

"No he—" He cocked his head in curiosity and she caved. "Oh fine. It isn't as if it matters anyway," she muttered, pulling a fur up higher over them since the fire had died down.

 

"Does to me," he confessed softly. That was enough to catch her attention, turning up to him in surprise. "It was ours. Because we chose it. Not because Daenerys commanded it. Or because someone was coming after you. We chose it." _You chose_ me, he didn't say.

 

"We stole each other," she said, settling against him again, her hand dragging up and down his torso. She stared into the dwindling fire, thinking that Jon carried more heat.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, I'm so tickled some of ya'll have stuck this thing out. Super humbled and grateful!

Jon startled awake to the sound of a loud, wet crunch. He blearily recognized that someone was in his room uninvited, that Sansa slept next to him. Without considering his actions, he reached for the dagger he kept behind the headboard and threw it in the direction of the intruder. He blinked himself into consciousness when he heard the clang of the blade being deflected.

 

"Don't mind me," drawled a familiar voice, "Just sitting here, waiting for your lazy arses to wake up, trying not to get stabbed."

 

"Arya?" Sansa asked blearily, sitting up. Her hair was mussed and tangled beyond reason and Jon could see several of the love bites on her neck and chest. He nearly groaned thinking of how many he'd left on her thighs. But Sansa must have realized their state when Arya started snickering around a bite of her apple.

 

" _Arya!"_ she squealed, diving back under the furs to hide her state of undress.  She was muffled by the furs, but Jon managed to make out her shrill demand to know what Arya was doing there so early when they were _naked._ Jon thought this was a valid point and arched a brow at his little sister.

 

"Best start talking, Underfoot."

 

"Oh please, I've seen the both of you naked. This is nothing new to me." Jon snorted at Sansa's outraged shriek.

 

"Not the point, Arya."

 

She rolled her eyes, " _Fine,_ your bloody mad aunt invited me to break fast with her and she ambushed me with Volmark and Blackmont!" Jon had to physically cover his mouth to stop the laughter. "It's not funny you twat! She kept me there an hour! And they asked me about Braavos! How do you tell two green little cunnies that you spent three years learning to cut throats?"

 

"So you're hiding here—?"

 

"So I'm hiding here!" she confirmed indignantly. As she did, Sansa emerged next to him wearing a shift from seemingly nowhere. Jon looked around a moment, trying to remember that they were in his chambers.

 

"Where did you—?"

 

"Honestly, Arya? The morning after our wedding? Right in our chambers?" Arya tried to talk, but Sansa ploughed through. "Of course Daenerys is trying to push you at men today! They're all here and she leaves tomorrow! When is the next time she shall have the opportunity?"

 

"But—!"

 

"But you shockingly didn’t think that she would make an attempt the _whole_ week? Have you lost your touch?"

 

"I was drinking..." Arya grumbled, picking at her jerkin.

 

"And _please_ tell me you didn’t break your fast with the queen in boots and _breeches_!" Her outrage was met with Arya's own, and then suddenly was sweeping her legs to the side and getting out of bed. She and Arya shouted at each other even as Sansa slipped on a dressing robe and went out into the solar with Arya noisily on her heels. Where in Seven hells had she gotten a dressing robe? He didn't have much time to contemplate it though because the door shot open again, Arya's shouting seeping in, and Sansa swept in to kiss him soundly before running back out to scold her sister some more. With a heavy sigh, Jon flopped back against the pillows as Ghost trotted through the open door, loping easily onto the bed. Jon reached out to scratch his furry chest.

 

"We're outnumbered, old man," he muttered as Sansa was shouting something about boundaries and Arya was cackling. Ghost cocked his head, his big red eyes glowing.

 

"Aye," Jon sighed, "I like it too. Shall we go stop the bloodshed?" Ghost dropped flat to his stomach and covered his eyes with his paws, making Jon belly laugh. "A wise decision."

 

Jon decided that he wasn't going to get up. He realized that it was already near midday, and after all, it was the day after his wedding. No one should be expecting him anywhere. He hadn't the first clue what happened to his wife after the shouting died down. But she was in only a shift and a dressing robe, so she couldn’t get very far. Besides, she knew where he was and that was the important bit. He snuggled more deeply into the furs and pillows, mentally willing Sam to show up with some powders to soothe the ache in his head and neck. That was a useless exercise, as the maester would probably be attending to their guests. And himself, he thought with a snort. The man was overfond of that goat's milk.

 

An hour or two after midday, the door creaked open, which Ghost shot through immediately, and a familiar head of red hair ducked in, closing it quickly and sinking against it in relief. Jon smirked, crossing one foot over the other as he watched her.

 

"Rough out there is it, love?"

 

She opened her eyes to glare at him. "I hate you," she announced slipping out of the robe and tossing it onto a nearby chair. She came around the side and slid into the bed. "The Free Folk are mad. Apparently they were up at dawn starting the celebrations again. Aegon threatened them with the dragons and that was a whole _thing._ " He hummed, imagining exactly how the Dragon King reacted. He had a beastly temper in the morning.

 

"Then Brienne wanted my schedule for the day and everyone wants to see us before they leave."

 

"Shouldn't have left the bed," he hummed sagely, absently twisting some of her tresses in his fingers.

 

"I wouldn't have if Arya wasn't such a shit!" He laughed at her language. "And don't you dare take her side, that was entirely out of bounds."

 

"Aye, it was. She should count herself lucky I tired you out last night else she might have gotten an altogether different picture." She slapped his arm in reprimand even as he rolled on top of her and bent to bite at her ear. "Next time," he promised lowly, "I'll just have to start fucking you from behind. Trust me, she'll figure out those boundaries quickly." She laughed softly through her nose, moving under him as he kissed and licked the length of her neck.

 

“Harry did that a few times,” she told him, “It hurt.” With a sigh, Jon pushed back up on his elbows, looking down at her. As he silently observed her, she reached up to brush back a stray curl and stroked down his beard.

 

“You do realize that if you continue to bring up that prick while we’re in bed, I am going to get competitive.” His expression might have been tight, but his tone was teasing. She knew he was trying to be understanding, trying to be patient.

 

“With a ghost?” she japed lightly, tugging on one of his curls. He bent again to kiss her, body lying over her inch by inch until he blanketed her. The deep pressure of it made her moan, made her lift her legs to accommodate him. Jon moved against her, rocking his hips, pulling himself forward slightly with his arms as he licked into her mouth, mimicking what he could be doing. He dragged a heavy hand down the length of her, pausing to squeeze her hip, before he reached back for her knee. He pulled it up to stretch her, so that his hardness rocked against where she needed it. She let out a muffled whine, her fingers digging into his biceps as he undulated, so easily giving her what the others could not. Her peak was slow and steady, sluggishly creeping up to his even pace. He kissed her all the while, insistent even as she shuddered out her release.

 

“I’ll not share space in your head,” he whispered into her cheek.

 

“Jealous,” she hissed, punctuating her point by pushing up against him.

 

“Very,” he murmured, gaining eye contact with her again. 

 

“Silly of you,” she said as she slid her hands down his arms to latch onto his torso so that she could angle herself up against him. He groaned and snagged her lips again.

 

“Aye, you’re turning me into a dithering fool.”

 

“Jon?”

 

“Aye love?”

 

“Stop talking.”

 

“As the queen commands…”

 


	21. Chapter 21

They didn’t get out of bed for a good long while. And even then it was only to eat and wash. Sansa had the guard send to Dorin for their meals and told Brienne to take the day off to do as she pleased. There was no sense in her waiting around for a possible attacker when Jon was draped around her and Longclaw was not two feet from the bed.

 

“I have a gift for you,” he told her while he brushed out her hair. Sansa had no desire to call for Gilly or a handmaiden, and had set about grooming her tresses when Jon decided to take over. He had her seated on the bed in front of him, within the circle of his legs. She submitted easily to his offer, and she couldn’t remember ever enjoying the task so much. Though, it took thrice as long because his hand drifted down once or twice between her legs to work her somewhere else. He had her arching back into him as he whispered filthy sweet nothings in her ear, undoing all of his previous work. So he’d have to begin anew. He even started braiding it, laughing at her surprise.

 

“Who do you think braided Arya’s hair? The septa?” he larked, “She knew I’d braid it like a horse’s.” Of course this had Sansa scoffing and bad-mouthing her sister’s stubbornness, which only made him laugh harder. But the thought made Sansa incredibly sad. Who braided Arya’s hair when Jon left for the Wall? She kept her tongue on the subject though, not wanting to ruin the mood.

 

She was more than a little surprised that Jon had thought to get her a wedding gift. Not necessarily because he was thoughtless, but because Northern newlyweds didn’t often exchange gifts or tokens. Part of the “no fuss” tradition. When Winter set in, the people needed alliances and children, not love matches and appreciation. The Lannisters had heaped gifts on Sansa for her wedding; even her gown had cost them a fortune. Sansa had never touched any of it. Another pile of gold wasting away in the capital, she thought bitterly.

 

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” she said as he got up from the bed to dig in a nearby trunk. And _dig_ was the appropriate term. Jon pulled out and set aside several items before finding what he wanted. How long had he had it? But all he took from the trunk was a leather bundle, small enough to fit into two hands. He brought it to the bed and placed it in her outstretched hands. She just stared at it for a moment, recognizing the weight and that despite the warmth of the room, the protection the leather should have provided, its contents were cold. Sansa looked up at Jon who tilted his head reassuringly, so she opened it.

 

Within the leather was a dagger black as pitch that glinted with a light of its own. The blade was smooth and shiny, without a single perceptible imperfection, and it curved up sharply to a lethal looking point. The handle was burnished silver, with the Stark sigil, and the guards curved like wolf claws. It was handsomely made, though not so ornate as even the knights of the Kingsguard had worn under the Lannisters.

 

“The children of the forest prefer to wrap them in rope or leather, but I thought this might be a little more appropriate. Valyerians call it frozen fire. I had it fitted for your coronation,” he admitted. She looked up at him, confused.

 

“But you didn’t give it to me?” she asked, her finger drifting along the flat of the blade. He smiled, eyes wandering over her face.

 

“It was impulsive. I had it done not long after we left you here. But when the time came…I wasn’t sure you would like it.”

 

She lifted a brow at him, “You? Self-conscious? Never.” He rolled his eyes and got onto the bed next to her while she continued examining the blade. It was light, much lighter than Arya’s and it glimmered even when there was no light to refract off of it. “Did you get it from Dragonstone? Davos told me that there’s deposits of obsidian there, that they use it for candles.”

 

“No, not from Dragonstone.” She looked down at him, careful to take her hand away from the sharp edges of the blade. “North of the Wall. That piece came from a blade I found buried in the ice the eve before the battle.”

 

“From a sword?” she asked. He nodded. “The sword you told Rickon about?” He nodded again.

 

“We had thousands of arrowheads, dozens of daggers, spearheads and the like. But we only ever found the one full blade.”

 

“And you _broke_ it?” she asked incredulously. “Are you mad?”

 

He chuckled, turning his face into the side of her thigh before answering. “I didn’t break it to make your dagger, if that is what you ask. It shattered when I took the head of the Night’s King.”

 

“But I thought—”

 

“Tell no one,” he interrupted gruffly. “As far as the smallfolk and the minstrels know, Drogon burned the Night’s King to ash….which he did…right after I decapitated him.”

 

“Why shouldn’t anyone know that though?” she asked, setting the dagger back into the leather. She had the impulse to keep touching it, to feel its cold solidity, but the urge frightened her so she put it safely aside. He smiled thinly.

 

“Well for one, a dragon slaying an undead king makes for a better song.” She scornfully huffed her disapproval, making him genuinely smile. “But it also helped Daenerys gain the North’s favor. We both agreed that things would go more smoothly if she were proven once more to be the true heir to the Iron Throne. Defending the North against its worst enemy was a major point in her favor.”

 

“But _you_ —”

 

“Didn’t want the throne. What good is a song to me when my aunt needed it to solidify her claim?”

 

She twisted her lips up reluctantly, “I still don’t like it.”

 

“You don’t have to,” he leaned up easily to kiss her, “Just wear the dagger.”

 

“Why don’t you wear it? Why give it to me?”

 

“You’re Queen in the North. You are the defender of this kingdom, so you should have it.”

 

She lifted her brows and scoffed, “I’ve never even used a blade.”

 

“Which is why I also have a dozen spears and a cache of arrowheads.” Sansa tipped her head back to laugh at him. Jon thought of everything. She looked back down at the dagger, glinting against the matte of the boiled brown leather. In true, it was a fine piece of craftsmanship. Whoever had forged it must have been remarkably skilled.

 

“The queen’s blacksmiths are quite talented,” she offered, her finger brushing over the sigil. The face was so detailed, and she noticed that the eye was a chip of obsidian as well. Clever. Jon hummed.

 

“Very much so, but I didn’t use them. They would have tried to make it too fussy as they always do with daggers intended for ladies. Like Arya’s, you remember. That would have made it too heavy for you. I went into Flea Bottom, found a blacksmith there.” She turned the handle to see that on the other side, instead of the sigil were the words _The North Remembers_ in script which looked alarmingly like her father’s hand. “Very capable lad, a bastard hedge knight named Gendry. Got himself a reputation for working with dragonglass.”

 

“Gendry Waters,” she repeated softly, entranced by the dagger once more. She lifted it into her hands and touched the tip with a finger. Though it was a light press, blood pearled.

 

“Aye, that’s how they call bastards in the Crownlands. Brienne recommended him to me, said I’d find his work more than satisfactory.”

 

“And where did Brienne meet him?” she asked in a whisper as the memories came rushing back by the dozen. Her father’s pouring over old ledgers. Whispers from Varys overheard in the corridors. Cersei’s hateful venom dripping from the air of her solar. _Find him_ , she’d hissed, _and kill him_. She remembered a letter from Arya, a detailed one of her travels from King’s Landing while she tried to dodge the Lannister’s men. The story of how she came to Harrenhal to play steward to Tywin Lannister’s men. _The Ghost of Harrenhall_.

 

“The Riverlands, apparently,” Jon told her absently, drowsiness coloring his voice. She repeated the word in a hush. “Aye,” he confirmed, “Working as a smith at an inn, just before she went to find Jaime Lannister to get you from the Vale.”

 

“With the Brotherhood? The Brotherhood without Banners, who fought against the Lannisters led by Lord Beric?”

 

“I suppose,” Jon said slowly, sitting back up and looking at her curiously. “Why?”

 

Sansa felt a rush of dread to her gut. She set aside the dagger, gathered up her skirts, and darted out into the solar to enter the corridor. There was only one guard on duty. She called for him, demanding that she needed to see Davos immediately. When she swept back into the solar, a hand over her mouth to keep from retching, Jon was up and half-dressed looking absolutely bewildered by her sudden terror. She paced to try and calm herself, but it wasn’t working well. She needed Davos.

 

“What is happening?”

 

“Can you spare Davos for a time?”

 

“I don’t see why not…Sansa, will you stop and tell me what’s going on?”

 

“I just need Davos,” she answered, wringing her hands and refusing to look at him. If she looked at him, her resolve would break, and Gendry Waters’ life depended upon her resolve. Jon sounded completely exasperated, but merely sat on the settee and watched her quietly. Davos arrived not a few minutes later, bursting into the room as if he were chasing some unseen enemy, eyes wild.

 

“Your grace?” he asked frantically. “Is everything all right—What..?”

 

“I need you in King’s Landing,” she told him shortly, squeezing her hands to keep her voice even.

 

“What?” both men asked in tandem, Jon getting to his feet and moving to stand beside Davos. It was almost a defensive gesture.

 

“I need you to go to King’s Landing, and find a blacksmith called Gendry Waters.” She went to her desk and immediately began writing out a letter. “You’re to give him this letter and tell him that he is needed at Winterfell.” She powdered the ink and stamped her seal, reading over the hasty words before she folded it and turned to hand it to Davos. “You’re to tell no one where you’re going or why.” Both men stared at her as if she’d lost her mind and Davos didn’t reach to take her missive.

 

“Sansa what in Seven hells—?”

 

“ _Don’t_ ,” she snapped furiously and then calmed herself, “argue with me.” She looked Davos dead in the eye, terrified beyond reason for this boy she hadn’t met. “Davos Seaworth you knew Stannis Baratheon better than any man alive.” He cocked his head, intrigued. “You will understand when you see Gendry.” Sansa inhaled sharply when Davos’ eyes widened, possibly in some comprehension. “Leave before dawn.” She took his hand and put the letter in it, eyes locked on his eyes. Davos opened his mouth to answer, but closed it and merely dipped his head and left. When the door had shut behind him, Jon rounded on her.

 

“You know this man? You’ve met him?”

 

“No,” she answered shakily, reaching for a chair to sit in and breathing deeply for the first time in a long few minutes. “No, but I’ve heard of him.”

 

“You are going to have to explain this to me,” he said crouching in front of her. “What’s going on? What are you so afraid of?”

 

She shook her head, bringing a hand to his cheek, “We can’t speak of it. Not until she is gone and he is here.” He nearly asked who, but she put a hand over his lips, “Do it for Arya, please? Don’t ask me, for Arya’s sake.”

 

He sat back on his heels with a sigh, “I am more confused now than when we started.” He looked at her pleadingly, begging. “What do Arya and Stannis Baratheon have to do with Gendry Waters?” Even as he asked, Sansa brought both hands to his face her hands steadying.

 

“I need you to trust me,” she said evenly, willing him to understand. “Trust me as Father should have trusted my mother.” Jon’s face dropped into something frozen and stony, his eyes widened as she kept her gaze level, trying to get him to understand what she was saying without before forced to say the words aloud. His hand came up to cover hers on his face, and he leaned into it. She didn’t promise to tell him, and he didn’t bother asking her to.

 

“I’m sorry I ruined the day,” she said feebly, “I didn’t—”

 

“Mean to,” he finished, standing so that he could sit beside her. “I get that. But I wish you would stop apologizing when you get upset. You’re allowed to get angry, you’re allowed to give orders without explaining them. I just—you have me worried.”

 

She smiled, leaning on his shoulder, “The dagger truly is beautiful, and I do like it.” She smoothed out her skirts absently. “Now I don’t have to ask for Arya’s.” Jon barked out a laugh that made her hum contentedly.

 

“Tormund will be shaking in his boots.” 

 

“Oh!” she said, sitting up again and getting to her feet. “That reminds me.” She dashed through the door to her solar. Jon heard her rummaging around, heard her grunt, and then she came back with saddle in her arms. He was immediately on his feet to help her with it, taking the bulk in his own arms. It was a finely made saddle, too. Black leather, worked to look like dragon scales, and tooled with the Targaryen sigil. Though the stirrups were made in the shape of wolf’s head, his feet would slide through their jaws.

 

“Your old one,” she said, flopping into seat out of breath, “Looked like hell. Fine for travel, not for anything formal.” Jon lifted it and then set it on the settee to examine it more carefully. The stitching was incredible, but it wasn’t like anything he’d ever seen from Winterfell’s craftsmen.

 

“It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

 

She smiled, “A Dothraki made it. I had Dany commission it, and then when she brought it here, I had the smithy replace the stirrups.”

 

“Thank you.” But she saw his brow furrow, the small frown that stretched his lips. 

 

“What’s the matter?” she asked, leaning her head back to look up at him.

 

“Gifts,” he said softly, brushing a hand along the buttery soft leather. The Dothraki really knew what they were doing, Sansa thought, the saddle made even his hand look well. “It’s a strange thing.” His eyes went somewhere she couldn’t follow, went far back to a place she couldn’t reach.

 

“Now you’re beginning to worry me,” she said hesitantly, watching the way he cradled a stirrup in his hand, staring at it. “Do you not like it?” Immediately he dropped the stirrup and turned to her, his eyes flashing.

 

“I love it. It’s finely made. I was only remembering.”

 

“Was it a sad memory?”

 

“Most of ours are,” he reminded her gently. Sansa couldn’t help the pitiable sound that escaped her. She reached out a hand to him and he came to her, taking up her hands in his. “So we will have to make new ones, won’t we?” She smiled up and him a nodded, eyes locked on his face. She didn’t resist or offer protest when he led her back into the bedroom.

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSA: Listen, I'm very upset that in the show, Gendry rowed off and we haven't heard from him. Does he have enough water? Is he eating enough? Where was he going? Did Melisandre even give him a map? What if there was a storm?? He's in that stupid little dingy! I know he's with the Brotherhood in the books, but his storyline honestly stresses me the fuck out. 
> 
> That is all, as you were.

Their guests left and Winterfell emptied, and once again things were business as usual in the North. Though Sansa knew her secret was causing strain between her and Jon. He didn’t pull away exactly, but she could see very clearly that he wanted to ask. He wanted so badly to know what troubled her, why she shot Arya nervous looks, why she watched every day for a raven that never came. And she wanted to confide in him, wanted to tell him why Gendry needed to be treated with discretion, but she couldn’t risk it. Not until she’d spoken to Gendry, not until she was sure.

 

Davos returned with his charge in tow a turn and a fortnight after their wedding. He arrived dirty and exhausted, and roughly brought Gendry into her Hall in the midst of her hearing grievances. Sansa, seeing him enter, stood immediately and dismissed everyone, promising to resume in an hour. Davos, perceptive as he was, kept to the corner with Gendry until the Hall had cleared, leaving Sansa standing at the head table, with Brienne, Arya, and Jon watching them curiously. Sansa felt her chest clench tight when Davos led Gendry before her, taking to his knee. Gendry followed suit, thanking Sansa for the invitation to Winterfell. When he looked up, he seemed to take in the others standing around him.

 

“Just as you asked, your grace,” Davos said firmly. Sansa nodded and bid him to rise.

 

“You’ve done well, Ser Davos. Please, to your chambers to rest. I shall send Dorin with a hot meal and a maid with a bath.” Davos thanked her profusely and then left the Hall.

 

“Lord Targaryen?” Gendry said in surprise, “And Lady Brienne? I did not…” Sansa watched his eyes drift to Arya, Arya who was stunned and wide eyed, frozen in place as she stared. Gendry did the same, any civility he might have had falling off. She saw the way he mouthed her name, the sound barely emanating from his lips.

 

“They said you were dead,” Arya stated flatly, not taking her eyes from him.

 

“I—I should have been. There was a Maester…They said _you_ were dead.”

 

“Braavos,” she explained tersely. They lapsed into silence, still staring. “You left me.”

 

He shrugged, “The smithy with the Brotherhood or the Wall to freeze my arse off. And technically, you were the one who left.” Sansa looked back and forth between them, anxious that the tension would snap or Arya would stab him or something else equally terrible. Gendry Waters, with his dark hair and bright blue eyes, the spitting image of a young Robert Baratheon, spread his hands, as if placating. “I met your mother.”

 

“You met a wraith.”

 

“I would have—”

 

“I killed her myself,” Arya snapped furiously, making Sansa wince. The rumors of Lady Stoneheart had circulated wide and far, shooting fear in the hearts of the smallfolk. When Sansa re-took Winterfell, Arya had come from King’s Landing to return their mother’s bones to the family crypt. Sansa had never asked where she found her. Or how.

 

“What is he doing here, Sansa?” Arya asked her lowly, not taking her eyes from the man in front of her. Sansa knew that Arya cared for him. That they had a strong bond, and he’d broken faith with her.

 

“We have a bit of a problem,” Sansa said evenly, pulling her skirts forward to re-take her seat. Jon came to stand closer to her, a hand on her shoulder. She looked up into his concerned face and covered his hand with hers, rubbing there. She looked back to Gendry who continued to look confused. She inhaled.

 

“What we must discuss concerns all of you, but it is a betrayal of Queen Daenerys. If this bothers you, leave this Hall.” All four of their gazes riveted to her in shock and alarm, but no one moved an inch. “Very well. Gendry, five years ago, you were taken from your master blacksmith in Flea Bottom, you were to be taken to the Wall where you were to join the Night’s Watch.” Jon’s grip on her shoulder grew tighter, possibly as he began to understand. “My sister informed me some time ago that during your journey, your party was stopped by the Lannister’s Kingsguard.”

 

There was a pause before he answered, “Yes.” He spoke slowly, eyes narrowing. “That is all true.”

 

“Do you know why?” she asked levelly.

 

He shrugged, his expression pinched as he struggled to remember, “I only know that they were looking for someone. Nearly everyone died,” his gaze darted to Arya, “excepting a few of us.”

 

“They were looking for you,” Sansa informed him shortly.

 

“Sansa, don’t—”

 

“Quiet, Arya,” she snapped back, keeping her gaze on Gendry. “You are Robert Baratheon’s bastard son. The only one left alive. When Cersei Lannister condemned my father as a traitor, she discovered that he had found you, and she sent men to murder you.”

 

“I—”

 

“My father was content to keep you from their clutches, and since it is a long held Stark tradition to harbor royal bastards, I am offering sanctuary to you. Should Daenerys ever discover your existence, and eventually she will because the Spider still advises her, she will have you killed.”

 

“Your grace, I don’t—” She held up a hand to silence him.

 

“I cannot offer you the safe haven of the Night’s Watch, where you would be no threat to her. But I can offer you a home here, away from her knowledge, so long as you swear to never act on this knowledge.”

 

“And if I refused?”

 

“I would kill you myself.”

 

“Ah. So not much of a choice, then.” He smiled, however and Sansa thought it looked a lot like the dead king’s smile. Genuine. “I’ve only ever wanted to be a blacksmith, your grace, and I would happily serve you here.”

 

She smiled, “Good.” She turned to her Lady Commander, “Brienne, could you escort Gendry to the guest house, and be sure to have Dorin send a hot meal and a bath. Our guest must be weary from his travels.”

 

The four of them all looked to each other and then back at Sansa before Brienne answered in the affirmative and led Gendry from the Hall. Sansa let out a long sigh of relief and sank back into her chair. Beside her Jon had pulled a chair up to face her, and bent over his knees with his hands clasped in his hair. Arya hopped up onto the table, staring at her hands in her lap.

 

“Robert’s bastard?” Jon asked quietly, not looking at her yet.

 

“Yes,” Sansa breathed quietly. “The Lannisters often talked too loudly, and they thought me some stupid girl. They didn’t care what I heard.”

 

“He might have been king?” Arya asked.

 

“No,” Jon answered quickly. “No chance Stannis would have let him live had he known. No bastard would rule over a trueborn brother.”

 

“So you can imagine my surprise,” Sansa interposed sardonically. “When you said you’d seen him, I knew that he couldn’t possibly know anything about it. All the better for him.”

 

“But now he does.”

 

“Yes, now he does.”

 

“He’s a bastard of a dead house with no claim, no army, and no influence. You truly think Daenerys would think him a threat and kill him?” Arya asked angrily.

 

“Aye,” Jon answered again. Arya glowered at him, but Jon lifted his head to shake it. “You didn’t see her when she took King’s Landing. The Baratheons and Lannisters were usurpers, traitors who murdered her family. The only reason Tyrion lives is because he killed his father and can talk his way out of any no-win scenario you might think up. She claimed me as her nephew even though I am a bastard, just to secure the North.  And there are still people who remember their oaths to Robert. To Stannis. Hell, Brienne _adored_ Renly. She would have killed Stannis where he stood if not for her oath to your mother.” Jon stood, dragging a hand across the back of Sansa’s chair.

 

“If she finds out he’s here, what happens to us?” Arya asked astutely.

 

“I suppose it would depend entirely upon how she found out,” Sansa sighed. “I don’t intend to let Gendry leave Winterfell ever again, so it’s a moot point.”

 

“So he’s our prisoner?”

 

“More like a ward. He cannot be allowed to stay in King’s Landing, and my conscience will not allow for the queen to kill him senselessly. Not when he is innocent of his family’s history. Not when all he wants is to make swords and helmets.”

 

“He’s a good smith,” Arya said blankly.

 

“That he is.” 

 

The three Starks sat quietly there for a long while, listening to wind outside howl and bash against the windows. Wars they could handle. Usurpers, they could handle. But Starks had never been very good at handling bastards, bastards with the right name and a possible claim but no desire to take it. Bastards who walked a fine line between death and rebellion.

 

"And you didn’t think Davos should know who he was escorting?" Jon asked quietly, a slight accusation in his voice.

 

"He knew," Arya intervened. "He knew the second he laid eyes on him because he looks just like Robert. And Robert looked like Stannis. Everyone said so." Sansa could hear her frustration, her irritation that she’d never seen it herself.

 

"How did you know Davos would know him?"

 

Sansa shrugged, "There was a reason father took Littlefinger's word so easily."

 

"Baelish knew?"

 

"He knew everything. About everyone. That was how he stayed alive so long."

 

"I’ve said it before and I'll keep saying it. I wish he were alive so I could cut off his head again."

 

Sansa rolled her eyes, "For all the good that would do." Jon scowled. "Dany doesn't need any more enemies. She doesn't need a Baratheon coming from the woodwork, she doesn't need another revolt. If she discovered him and executed him, she would make it public and what do you think the Baratheon bannermen in the Stormlands would do? What would the Northmen have done if she executed you?"

 

"We need a way to fix him here. Keep him in plain sight without her knowing it."

 

"You've gotten on board pretty fast," she said suspiciously. Jon was usually the last person to agree with her plans. Especially if he thought she was taking an unnecessary risk. Gendry Waters was absolutely and completely an unnecessary risk.

 

He smiled, "I'm just grateful we don't have a horde or her dragons beating down our door. I expected much worse. Wasn't looking forward to fighting Aegon for real."

 

"You—you would have done that? Even when you didn’t know?"

 

"You're my wife and my queen. It comes with the job." He sat back down, elbows on his knees. "And I already told you, I just want you all safe."

 

"This kind of flies in the face of that, you know," she said, melting into mush at the fond look in his eyes. Yes, it was much, much better to have it all open between them. She put out her hand to him and he took it, kissing her knuckles with a glint in his eyes that made promises he’d never speak aloud in front of his little sister.

 

"Not if I can help it." Arya interrupted, pulling their attention back to the issue at hand. "I have an idea. Gendry's not going to like it very much. Nor will Daenerys."

 

"Dangerous?"

 

"That depends on your point of view."

 

"So what is it then?"

 

"Jon, leave," Arya said pointblank. He scoffed until Arya looked at Sansa, who caved, and looked at Jon. She gave him a pleading look, using her eyes to make promises of her own. He relented. With a scowl, Jon kissed Sansa's cheek and left.

 

"All right,” Sansa cleared her throat and twisted in her seat to face her sister, “What's got you embarrassed?"

 

"I can marry him."

 

Sansa knew how comical her face must have looked. She could feel the tension in her brow where her eyebrows were shot nearly to her hairline. She couldn’t even manage to keep her mouth shut, it kept drifting open to gape. Who was this woman and what had she done with Arya Stark? It took a long moment of mentally shaking herself, and then she found her voice again.

 

" _What?"_

 

"I can marry Gendry. I'm your heir, I'm staying here. He can take the Stark name and stay on at the smithy."

 

"Arya that's—"

 

"The best way not to arouse suspicion. He can't claim the Iron Throne as a Stark, and he has no claim to the North without me. And like he says, he only wants to be a blacksmith. Marrying me will keep him here, and I can watch him for you."

 

"Dany would never allow you to marry a commoner."

 

"Who's talking about what she would allow? I'll marry him in secret if you like, and you have plausible deniability when I tell her."

 

"Assuming Gendry agrees."

 

"Oh. He will."

 

"You don't have to do this."

 

"Neither did you." Sansa stiffened. "You only sent for him because you knew what he meant to me. Because you knew he was my friend."

 

"Yes, well, we have lost so many that I didn’t think we could spare another," she admitted, looking down at her hands. She picked at her nails, feeling sheepish and foolish for presuming to know Arya’s mind.

 

"You still didn’t have to."

 

"It's what Father would have done. It's what Father _did_ do."

 

"Father was a fool," Arya whispered. It was something they both very, very quietly agreed on. Jon would forever see Ned Stark as a hero of old, one who had been deeply wronged and betrayed. But he had too much pride, was too set in his views of right and wrong. He should have left King’s Landing to the Lannisters when Robert Baratheon died. He shouldn’t have backed Stannis so loudly in the capital. He shouldn’t have made a play to invalidate Joffrey’s claim, especially not with Littlefinger’s advice or awareness of his movements. Ned Stark should never have left the North.

 

"Yes, he was, because he didn’t trust the right people. I trust you and Jon and Brienne. We are a pack, and we cannot afford to fight wars amongst ourselves."

 

"No, we cannot. I will speak to Gendry. And I'll marry him within the week if it pleases."

 

"You still don't have to—"

 

"I do. I can’t explain it properly, but I need to do this."

 

"You love him," she explained it for her.

 

"It was an infatuation. When I was a child," Arya argued back.

 

"You love him." Her words were firm and insistent because it was true. Sansa had seen it the moment Arya’s eyes locked on her long lost friend. It wasn’t mere friendship, a bond born of their experiences together. Arya had truly loved the boy. She would love the man, too, no doubt.

 

"Yes."

 

"Aunt Lyanna was supposed to marry Robert until Rhaegar stole her."

 

Arya smirked as she hopped from the table, turning on her heel to walk backward out of the hall, "Well it's a good thing then that the Targaryen prince already stole himself a Stark girl," she teased.

 

"Rhaegar was married, too!"

 

Arya spun on her heel walking out the door, "I believe I said stole," she called over her shoulder, "Not married!"

 

Sansa sunk back into her chair with a wide smile on her face.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendarya Chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to skip if Gendarya ain't your thing. I wanted an Arya POV, to round out her character some more.

He looked just the same, she thought as she slid into the room. Just as tall, just as strong. She tilted her head as he got into the tub. No, stronger. His scruff had grown into a respectable beard. He certainly wasn't a boy any longer. Arya moved quietly (silently) through the room so that she stood in the shadowed corner where she could see him properly. Sansa was right. He did look like Robert. A few stone lighter, a young, fit Robert. If Robert had ever wielded a hammer.

 

"I know you're there," he murmured from the tub, eyes still closed. She snorted, moving out of the shadow so he could see her too. Slowly those deep blue eyes fluttered open to take in the sight of her. She had been stunned beyond words to see him again. One of Beric's men said Gendry had died during a scuffle with the Freys. That was after she cut off her own mother's head, so she was inclined to believe just about anything she was told. Arya had buried her mother's body in a clearing near the river by Riverrun, to keep her safe until she could be restored to Winterfell. That's where she'd run into what remained of the Brotherhood. And Gendry hadn’t been with them.

 

"You've changed," he said, looking down the length of her. She didn’t wear the finery Sansa's handmaidens did, but she was well dressed. A long tunic and boots instead of breeches, Needle belted at her waist. She copied Sansa's braids for the sake of consistency and normality, she supposed. No, she wasn't a little girl any longer.

 

"You haven't," she shot back flatly. "Still stupid enough to let someone get in your room. If I were a Lannister, you’d have been dead five minutes ago."

 

"You’re not a Lannister. You're not just someone."

 

"I'm not no one either." She had given that up. She wasn't Arry. She wasn’t Weasel. She wasn’t Nan. She wasn’t a serving girl or Cat of the Canals. She wasn't No One. She was Arya Stark, daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark of Winterfell. She was the North’s daughter.

 

"Have you considered that I left the door open for you?"

 

She smirked, jerking her head at his presumption, "If I want in, I get in."

 

He smirked right back, "As always."

 

They dropped off to silence for a long moment. And then he set about washing himself. Arya lifted herself onto the table, watching him steadily.

 

"So it seems I'm right back where I started, serving another highborn," he said conversationally, not at all bothered by her watching him.

 

"That isn't Sansa's intention."

 

"Can't leave though, can I?"

 

"You could."

 

"She'd kill me first, she said so."

 

"Valar morghulis."

 

His gaze snapped up to hers again, bright and hard, piercing into her like so very few men had done since she'd seen him last.

 

"What do you want, m’lady?"

 

She flinched. People called her that every day. Everyone addressed her that way, and had done for nearly four years now. She should have been used to it. But she hated the sound of her title on his lips just as much as she'd hated it all those years ago. Back when she thought them equals and he thought he needed to prove himself to be someone. Arya had been someone. And back then she wanted so desperately to be no one. Coming back to Westeros, she understood one thing better than anything else: the people around you made you someone. So long as you were alone, you would always be no one. She had Jon’s smiles back. She had Syrio’s whispers in her ear. She had Sansa’s shrill scolding back. She had Nymeria at her side. She had her home back.

 

"I offered to be your family once."

 

"And like I told you—"

 

"Aye, I would be your lady. And you would be my lord."

 

"That isn’t how it works," he sighed. Arya cocked her head and slid from the table.

 

"Don't presume to tell me how things work among noble houses. I am a lord's daughter. My sister is queen and my cousin her consort and heir to the Iron Throne. There is plenty in this world, Gendry Waters, that I know more about than you. Names would be one of them." She went around the table to pour them both a glass of wine. Behind her sash were packets of the most potent, quickest poisons known to the world. She had rarely ever poured a man a glass of anything without reaching for that sash. It was a strange thing. She walked toward the tub and handed him the goblet.

 

"When a man of a lower house marries into a higher one, the woman keeps her own name. And sometimes, the man takes hers."

 

He scowled, "So what? Now that I'm a stag's bastard instead of no one’s bastard, I'm worthy of the great House Stark?"

 

She sipped her wine, "No." He pulled a face, unimpressed. "Moreover, you're not a stag. You're a bull. And just as stubborn as you ever were." It was his turn to snort. Then he tossed back the glass of wine, set the goblet aside, and stood from the tub. Arya didn’t react except to scan the long length of him, seeing just how much of a man he'd become in their separation. He had no self-consciousness and no need of it.

 

So they stared each other down, him defenseless, her armed to the teeth. Their situation was quite the reverse from when they were children. He'd had all the power then. He was a man, he knew her name, he could wield a sword bigger than Needle if he chose. She could too now. She used Needle to make a point: she didn’t need some thematic weapon to bleed you dry. She could do it with a spoon if she chose. Now? Now men were afraid of her. Now she knew his name. Gendry probably thought she would use it against him. He stepped out of the tub, and she stoically reached for the dressing robe to hand to him.

 

“Was the Brotherhood the family you’d hoped it would be?” she asked, fixated on his chest as he slid the robe onto his shoulders and tied the sash. Her eyes cut up to his pointedly, once his chest was hidden from view. He looked vaguely amused, one brow cocked up like it had been when he’d discovered she was highborn and tried calling her _m’lady_ and bowing to her. Put his arse right in the mud, she did. And she’d do it again, if he were looking at her like a silly little girl instead of like a woman whose _bell he’d like to ring_.

 

“No. But you know that.”

 

“I do.”

 

The conversation fell off again as they watched each other. He stepped from the tub, not moving toward her, but close enough. Arya could smell the sharp rose soap that Dorin stocked the Guest House with, but then there was just Gendry, his earthy presence. He dressed slowly, pulling on his breeches, sliding the robe away to drag his shirt over his head. 

 

“I still don’t know what you want, m’lady,” he said softly, adjusting his clothing. “When last we met, all you wanted was to get back here, back to your brother. Now, you’re here, restored to your great house with your lady sister, and your brother’s dead. What else could you possibly want?”

 

“You.”

 

He finally turned to face her. Gods, had he always been that beautiful? Had his face always been so handsome? Certainly that jaw hadn’t always been so chiseled and his eyes so devastatingly blue. She remembered so clearly that day they parted. That day he claimed the Brotherhood could be his family and she would only ever be a lady. But Arya had never been a lady, and she still wasn’t. She was a killer. And the Brotherhood had never been a family. Just a desperate bunch of men with a fleeting, fickle cause destined to fizzle out while a real war was being fought. Destined to disband when they’d brought Catelyn Stark back from the dead to enact justice they couldn’t begin to comprehend. No, he hadn’t been a man. Just a scruffy boy sulking because he’d been tossed about by more powerful men like everyone else had. Arya saw his chest working harder, his breaths growing shallower as they stood in the silence of her answer.

 

“You were never one to mince words, were you?” His tone was scoffing, incredulous. Gendry had never understood her properly. Never understood what she was. He was Southroner. She was a Wolf of the North. She had to make him understand.

 

She snorted softly, keeping her gaze steady, knowing that if she didn’t look away, then he couldn’t. The eyes is where you knew a person. She’d known this for some time. She’d come to know it as she watched men die, as she watch the light fade from their eyes. There were some men she knew intimately without ever having spoken to them.

 

“Do you know why you were brought here?” she asked, devoid of feeling. He kept her gaze even as he shrugged.

 

“I ‘spect to keep as some kind of bargaining chip. Maybe she’ll offer me up to the Dragon Queen when she needs. I don’t know, really.”

 

“You’re not in the lion’s den anymore, Gendry. You’re among wolves now. And I know that doesn’t mean much to you, but it is quite different. We’re a pack. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”

 

“Pretty words.”

 

“Not just. They were my father’s words. And he died alone, far away from home. I would have died alone, had I not come to my senses.”

 

His gaze softened, she saw the way his shoulders dropped. “The world’s been unkind to you.”

 

“Not in the way you think it has,” she snapped. She wouldn’t have him think her the victim, not with so much blood on her hands. “When my cousin spoke of you to my sister, she sent one of her most trusted men to get you from King’s Landing, but not because you are a Baratheon. Not because your presence here will do her any good. In fact, it puts all of us in danger.”

 

“Then why—?”

 

“Because you were my friend once. Because when life restored her to me and Jon won us back our home, I confided in her what happened to us on the Road. What happened that made me leave Westeros. And she knew your name, too. She lived among the family that would have cut off your head. She chose to spare you a second time. For my sake.”

 

Life had made her colder, she thought. Years ago, she would have begged him. She would have pleaded and shouted and tried to childishly manipulate to get what she wanted from him. _Valar Morghulis_ , Jaqen H'ghar whispered in her ear. _But what do we say to the god of Death?_ Syrio bandied back. _The Starks endure_ , her father assured her, his smile so warm and loving. He’d once told her brothers that there was no shame in being afraid. Arya was convinced she had been stripped of all her fear, that she had nothing left to give. Still, there she stood, looking into the eyes of the man she’d despaired as dead, afraid. Her pack had once been dead too, Arya supposed, but they came back.

 

“She loves you.”

 

“More than anything.”

 

“And you love her.”

 

“More than anything.”

 

“So how could a family, a pack, who loves so fiercely, accept a stranger in their ranks?” His voice was flat and even, but his chest bellowed, his nostrils flared, his fingers clenched. Arya took it for what it was. She stepped forward once and then twice, slowly.

 

“My sister risks the Dragon Queen’s wrath just by bringing you here, merely because you were my friend. What do you think she would do for a good brother?” She spoke softly, and didn’t reach out. She placed herself close, but he had to decide. He had to come to her. She couldn’t _do this_ again.

 

“And what would your brother think?”

 

Arya took an aggravated step forward. “Which one?” she sneered. “The one whose mind is snapped in half from torture? The one who whispers songs to us on the winds from far away? The one who was murdered in his mother’s house, whose head was cut off and body defiled? Or the one who is my cousin and married to my sister? Which brother do you think would stand to speak for me?”

 

“Arya—” he reached out for her but she jerked away.

 

“I thought I was _my lady_?”

 

Gendry pulled his hand back in, though still clenched and raised, while Arya tried to get her breath to even out. She wanted to be calm. She wanted to be reasonable. She wanted him to see sense. _Stubborn bullheaded bastard boy_ , she thought bitterly. Even when his expression deflated into one resembling defeat, Arya didn’t relent. He looked sadder than she’d ever seen him, lost perhaps.

 

“I should never have let you go off alone.”  Of all the things he might have said, she hadn’t expected that. She prickled, not knowing how to react otherwise. “Not—” he reached out for her again, and this time, she didn’t jerk away. He still didn’t touch her though. “Not because you couldn’t take care of yourself. You always did a much better job of it than the rest of us. I just—you and me, we—” he trailed off, mouth working uselessly until he drew in his bottom lip, wetting it and biting down absently. “They told me you married a lord’s bastard. That you were Lady of Winterfell. That you died in the battle with Stannis Baratheon.”

 

She shook her head in a daze, still staring, “Her name was Jeyne Poole, she was my sister’s friend.”

 

“I shouldn’t have let you go,” he repeated pathetically.

 

“I went looking for you when I came back. I went back to the Riverlands. I found my mother, or what was left of her. I found Beric and others, but I didn’t find you.”

 

He winced. “I couldn’t…when they told me who she was…when I thought you were dead, I just couldn’t—” Gendry inhaled deeply, stepping toward her again. “I went south. To Dorne. I worked in a smithy making weapons of dragonglass for Daenerys Targaryen’s army. And I would have stayed there except…”

 

“Except?”

 

“Except they said Jon Snow had come to King’s Landing. Jon Snow, the Stark-Targaryen bastard, hero of the Long Night, had returned triumphant, and I—I wanted to see him.” Slowly, so slowly she almost thought it wasn’t happening, Gendry raised a hand to her face. He touched her cheek so softly it almost wasn’t a touch at all. Her belly flipped. “Then, as fate would have it, he came to _me_. He found me because of Lady Brienne, because I’d earned a reputation with obsidian. And gods, Arya, he just—” He settled his hand on her cheek fully and she felt the warmth of it spread all through her. “You’ve got the same eyes, you know that?”  

 

Hot tears pricked at her eyes because Gendry staring down at her just looked so utterly devastated. Because he’d looked at Jon’s face, one which so resembled her own, and thought her dead. One of the stipulations of Arya remaining in King’s Landing for so long was that she didn’t want her name to be used widely or often. Outside the Keep, not many knew she existed. For Gendry, that meant she’d stayed dead much longer than necessary. She quickly caught his wrist at her face, her grip tight to keep him there. Because it burned her. It burned her to the core. How long had it taken her to start accepting Jon’s hugs and wayward head kisses? How long had it taken her to not flinch away from Sansa’s gentle hands? How long before she had stopped wincing whenever Rickon crashed into her, grabbed for her, reached out to her? So very, very long.

 

“You should not have let me go,” she echoed, voice raspy. His fingers tightened on her face.

 

“No. I was too proud. I was childish. I was sulking because you were going back to your family to be a princess and I was just another lowborn bastard.”

 

“My brother was a lowborn bastard and he’s irreplaceable to me.”

 

“Yes you’re strange like that.”

 

“Can’t be helped. Starks have Wildling blood, you see.”

 

“I don’t,” he said bringing up his other hand to her face, “I don’t know what that means, but I know there’s wildness in you and I’d be a thrice damned fool not to take it for myself when you’re standing here offering it.”

 

“So take it, you idiot bull boy!” she snapped.

 

Arya didn’t know who moved when or how, but they met in the middle, their mouths coming together in a furious clash of lips and teeth. It was not how she’d ever imagined kissing him. Her dreams had become increasingly torrid since she’d left the Riverlands. All tentative softness. But this was rough and raw and perfect. With a growl of frustration, he heaved her up on the table, setting her there to dive back in a kiss her hungrily. Gendry attacked and Arya met him head on, constantly trying to wrest control of the kiss. He bit and sucked at her lips, and she pushed and thrust her tongue through his, gasping when he pushed closer to the table even as he roughly dragged her closer to him. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and used her arms to gain more leverage to pull him more firmly down to her.

 

*

 

He couldn’t help himself. He knew it was wrong. The queen had extended her hospitality to him. And she was the queen’s sister. The queen’s _unwed_ sister. Gendry wasn’t fool enough to think that unwed meant maid, but he also wasn’t fool enough to think that Jon Targaryen wouldn’t sic that white beast on him if his pretty little wife asked him to. The steward said there were pups running about too. And another big gray. He wondered…

 

He wasn’t given the opportunity to wonder long because very quickly, Arya was removing his shirt, unbuckling Needle. Gods, she was prettier than he remembered. Probably because she was dressed in clean clothes and wore her hair long and wasn’t trying to hide her femininity. Her eyes were still big and luminous, like two moons always watching him, always seeing. He wanted to drown in them. While she undid her tunic, he pulled the leather strap from her braid and sunk his hands into her hair. Thick and tawny, and clean-smelling too. Nearly naked on the table in front of him, Arya pushed forward again, her arms winding around his neck. She used her leverage to grind herself against his hardness, making him gasp. _Gods, I’ve missed you_.

 

“I missed you, too,” she whispered in his ear, nipping at the lobe. “So I suggest you show me how much and fuck me before I change my mind.” Gendry laughed and shoved her down against the table.

 

“ _Ladies_ don’t say things like that,” he teased, drawing his hands down her short legs and back up again. He pulled at her smallclothes and she kicked him for his efforts.

 

“And as I’m forever reminding you,” she snarled, “I’m no lady.” She shot up again, and rent his breeches in an effort to get them off him. As her hand darted down to the feel the length of him, she leaned forward into him and he dropped kisses to her shoulder, moaning. She reached up to bite at his neck, her hand heavy and twisting on his cock, and he was absolutely certain he could come like that. Just to get a grip, he pulled away, looking into her eyes to see that heady, feral glint refracting back at him. _Not a lady,_ he thought, _a wolf_. With a growl, he batted her hand away, lifted her just so, and speared himself into her. He watched her pupils dilate, watched color flood her cheeks, and then he pulled back and pushed back in, over and over and over. Arya dipped her head back, her nails digging into his skin painfully sharp. Gendry didn’t care.

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, don't shoot me, but this is the last chapter. I hadn't really plotted anything out (that usually requires extra angst and drama I wasn't too keen on adding) beyond this. 
> 
> However, I do have several post-fic one-shots planned. So those will be added as I go. If you have prompts or things you'd like to see within this verse, please comment in the thingy. You guys have been so great and responded so positively, I'd love to please as much as possible.
> 
> THANK YOU

Gendry had been at Winterfell for a full turn before he fully began to appreciate the dynamics of the castle and its family. Jon and Sansa Stark were beloved. Not only because Jon was their hero, but because of Sansa’s strength and genuine kindness. The servants were happy, the smallfolk were happy, and it was a rare thing so early into one ruler’s reign. There was some thought that Queen Sansa was…cold…removed, even, in her treatment of others. Gendry doubted that anyone would say the same of her husband, though he spoke even less than she. Gendry wasn’t wholly surprised to see that Prince Rickon had open run of the place. Ser Davos and Maester Tarly were never too far from his side, but the boy was definitely wild. He had a manic sort of energy that put Gendry on edge. There didn’t seem to be anyone disciplining him. He mentioned it once, to one of the under stewards, and the man’s face had immediately darkened.

 

“Prince Rickon has had enough _discipline_ for several lifetimes to come.” Then he’d brusquely excused himself, leaving Gendry feeling chastened and dumbstruck. Those at Winterfell were venomously defensive of the Starks. Gendry, himself, wasn’t inclined to disagree with them. Sansa had been nothing but kind to him. Jon was placid in their interactions, though friendly enough. Lady Brienne and Davos looked at him oddly, like they were seeing ghosts, and maybe they were. Arya told him both knights had served one of his uncles. Evidently, Gendry took after his father.

 

And Arya? Arya was a warm resting place for his tattered soul. When she wasn’t training or leading out war parties against outlaws harassing their smallfolk, she was with Gendry. The king and queen had decided that they would marry in good time, but they wanted rumors of their affair to circulate before any ceremony took place. Say what you would about slight, pretty Queen Sansa, but she understood the game very well, and she was master of it. So as not to arouse suspicion with the Northmen, they would play off Arya’s union to Gendry as the result of a torrid affair. Eventually, the Dragon Queen would have to be informed that she had lost a key player in her political maneuvering in the South, but then she would be forced to attribute it to Arya’s rebellious impulses. And if the Southron Queen knew Arya even a little bit, Gendry knew it would work.

 

What Gendry hadn’t quite worked out, was Arya’s relationship to Jon Stark. By himself, he cut a strange figure. He’d been raised a bastard, taken the black, died, abandoned his oath, become a hero and Targaryen bastard, and then he married Sansa and took the Stark name. Even after being legitimized as a Targaryen. Moreover, his relationship with Arya was intense. They ate together, trained together, planned together. Together they were a unit, even when working with the queen. Gendry found himself curious, more than curious, about how they got on. They had been raised siblings, yes, but they were really cousins. The king and queen didn’t seem to have any trouble getting past that barrier, if their looks and wayward hands were anything to go by. Gendry was drawn in, ever watching. Which was how he found himself watching the pair of them teach a new squire to fight in the yard.

 

He hammered at the beginnings of the sword he was making on request from one of the Kingsguard. Still unaccustomed to the colder climes, he would usually work within the forge, but the shouting had drawn him out. He’d stuck out his head to see Arya and Jon sparring haltingly, going slowly through the motions with one another as a model for their young pupil. When Arya impishly jabbed the king lightly in the pit of his arm, he pulled a face, and Arya howled her laughter. Only for the king to counter with a quick parry and disarm her, much to the squire’s delight. They were bickering now over which style was best, which footing. _You should stand sideface_ , she’d once corrected him. Now he understood how she knew to correct him. Jon Stark was widely believed to be the best swordsman in Westeros, not that you would hear him boast it. Gendry nearly bit through his lip when the king dropped a heavy hand to Arya’s back, when she leaned into his touch, when he kissed the top of her head and went back to speaking to the squire as if nothing had happened.

 

“A fine day, is it not, Ser Gendry?” the queen’s sweet voice trilled as she came to stand beside him. She wasn’t looking at him, though, but had followed his gaze to the yard.

 

“Aye, your grace, very fine.” She turned to him then, with a sweet smile on her lips. There were times when he saw nothing of her sister in Sansa Stark. She was willowy and tall, her eyes angular and a bright blue, her chin pointed and cheekbones high. They looked nothing alike, as different as night and day. But then her expression would lapse into stony placidity, her features would darken like a storm rolling in across the sky, and there is where he found Arya. The queen kept her voice even and pleasing, she moved like a highborn lady while Arya was quick, fierce movement and sneers. Arya would slit your throat. Sansa would give her the order with a smile.

 

“Are you settling in well?” she asked unaffectedly, “I do hope everything is up to your standards. I admit that we do not armour our warriors with such fine metals as they do in the South…”

 

“The forge is magnificent, your grace, especially where you’ve rebuilt. I thank you for your concern, but trust me when I say that not everything in the South is so fine. And I have worked with much, much less than what you have here.”

 

She dipped her head in thanks, “Good. I am glad that you are adjusting to life here.” _It would have been unfortunate if you could not_ , was explicitly left unsaid. He dipped his head right back.

 

“You have been kind and over-generous with me, I think. I don’t deserve such consideration.” Though he was sincere, her eyes narrowed in scrutiny and Gendry felt exposed to her. Unlike Arya, the queen was difficult to read. Gendry had never understood women very well to begin with, but Sansa seemed a heavy veil of mystery. Though, her husband seemed to make her laugh and smile like it was some trifling thing. The thought of Jon Stark made him fidget again.

 

“I feel I must thank you, too” she said slowly. Her hand reached down to the belt at her waist, and she unsheathed the long obsidian dagger the king had commissioned from Gendry while they were still in King’s Landing. Gendry reeled in surprise. He had expected the king to keep the blade for himself, as a token of the war. To see it, laid out in Sansa Stark’s pale, delicate hands, was jarring.

 

“My husband told me that you made this blade for him. He gave it to me as a wedding gift. In true, it is an exquisite piece. Very lovely.” And very deadly, Gendry thought bitterly as he watched her finger move along the flat of the blade. She sheathed it again and clasped her hands in front of her. The fine gray wolf pelt across her shoulders writhed under her movement, and he saw that her sleeves billowed out long and wide as they often did in the dresses Southron ladies preferred. The blade on her waist was a strange blight on her prim, refined beauty.

 

“I thank you for the compliment, your grace, and I’m happy it pleases you.”

 

Her smile tightened, “My husband could have given me a stone-carved arrowhead and it would have pleased me.”

 

“Your grace?” he asked, tilting his head in confusion. At this point, he had laid down his tools and the sword he was making. The Kingsguard would just have to wait.

 

“Come Ser Gendry,” she said reaching for his arm, “Take a turn with me.” Gendry wiped his hands on a rag and gave his arm gladly, though she was the one who lead him. In the capital, he had seen lords and ladies walk this way. The ladies barely held onto the arm of the man who escorted them, as if a real touch would burn them irrevocably. Sansa held his arm firmly, familiarly. And then he thought of how he’d seen her cling to the king’s arm, how their hands clasped and fingers intertwined and she would smile brightly up at him. No, Sansa Stark was skilled in _feigning_ familiarity. Perhaps that was how she’d survived the Lannisters. As they walked, she didn’t bother hiding her interest in Arya, her husband, and the squire. She openly observed them with a small smile on her lips.

 

“They look well together, do they not?” she asked conversationally, dipping her head in their direction. The king and Arya stood side by side, focused on the squire’s movements with his sparring partner. They occasionally pointed and spoke lowly to each other, leaning in and nodding at the other’s words. “They have more of the North in them than my brothers and I ever did. All that dark hair and gray eyes. Some say they are my father and his sister reborn.”

 

“I suppose, your grace.”

 

She spared him a glance, nose wrinkling in amusement. “You would,” she responded nebulously. They turned before reaching the gate, and Sansa lifted a hand to the guards, reminding them of the delivery of ale that would be coming. She wanted them to be sure to skim from the top, and winked at them. The guards laughed and thanked her profusely. Gendry could only shake his head in wonderment at her rapport among them. Then he had the whole of her attention again.

 

“When you knew my sister as children, how did you find her?” she asked lightly. Gendry took a long moment to consider this.

 

“A boy.”

 

The queen chuckled appreciatively, “So did I, back then. That was all she ever wanted when we were young. She wanted to be a boy, to be brave and strong, just like our brother Robb. Just like Jon.” She smiled sadly at that. “I cannot begin to imagine what she went through when she realized that to be herself meant certain death. Arya tried for so very long to be anything but what she was.”

 

“She hardly seemed put out by it when I met her, your grace.”

 

The queen laughed softly through her nose, “You must not have known her well then, ser. My sister mislikes being anything but herself.”

 

“All due respect, your grace, but I have never known your sister to be anything but exactly herself.” She stopped suddenly, looking at him with knowing eyes that had lost all amusement.

 

“Then why is it you believe that when she says Jon is her brother you find it mere pretense?” Fear jolted through him hard and quick. He was so taken aback by her insight that he nearly dislodged his arm from her grasp. She held him firm, her gaze level and critical.    

 

“Don’t trouble yourself,” she said wryly, “She’s made no mention of it to me. But I can see it very clearly. The jealousy.” Gendry cleared his throat, averting his eyes from her, as he wasn’t able to withstand the pressure of her judgement.

 

“I—I meant no offense—”

 

“You do not offend me, Gendry. I, more than anyone, understand your feelings completely.” He opened his mouth to respond that this sounded foolish. Anyone with common sense could see that the king’s eyes sought out his wife first and foremost. That he took her hand and watched her like the citizens of King’s Landing watched the queen’s dragons fly above them. Oh, but, that was it then, wasn’t it? Gendry didn’t doubt the king’s feelings…Sansa hummed, looking gratified as the understanding swept through him.

 

“When we were children, they were inseparable. Arya adored him, even if I could never see why. I suppose my mother and I made her feel left out, and Jon, too, was left out of most things.”

 

“But you changed your mind about him?”

 

She raised a brow. “Of course. We are hardly children anymore. Jon is a fine man. Strong, and gentle, and brave just as my father always prayed for me.”

 

“Forgive me, your grace, but—"

 

“You don’t see my point?” She smiled broadly. “No, I suppose not. I am merely trying to assuage your doubts, ser. Arya loves Jon. He is her true brother, her closest friend, and all that she has left for a father. They need each other as the rest of us need breath in our lungs. I think you would find separating them to be quite difficult.”

 

“I wouldn’t—what I mean to say, your grace, is that they are very close. I’ve never seen her laugh and smile the way she does with him.”

 

She leaned in to say quietly, “Give it time. She is learning to trust you again, I swear it. But you will have to learn to love Jon as she does, if not quite so much. They are a matched set, and in true, I wouldn’t have them any other way.”

 

Just as she finished speaking, Gendry realized that the king was making his way towards them. Though it was cold, he had shed his cloak, and walked around in a short tunic and breeches. His inky curls were pulled back tight into a knot low on his head, and the beard did nothing to hide his smug grin as he observed his wife.

 

“And what are you two discussing so secretly?” he asked playfully as he stabbed the lance in his hand down into the ground, a tone that had never been directed at Gendry. Though, it still wasn’t. His playfulness was entirely because of his wife. On his arm, Sansa angled herself slightly toward him, lifting her chin haughtily.

 

“If it is a secret, then why should we tell you?” she bandied back with a condescending lilt in her voice. Was this how lords and ladies spoke to each other in royal courts? Did they play these games with one another? Did they tease each other like this? Like he and Arya often teased each other? Gendry watched, somewhat bemused, as the king put his hands to his hips with an expectant, challenging look on his face. The queen remained as placid and even as ever, giving not even a hint of her amusement away. But something quickly changed between them. Sansa’s grip on Gendry’s arm tightened and he heard her inhale sharply.

 

“ _Don’t you dare_ ,” she hissed at her husband, whose eyebrows lifted and eyes flashed with mischief. Sansa danced behind Gendry immediately, using him as a shield. “Jon Snow, I swear on the Seven, if you —!” The king didn’t even blink or falter at the use of his bastard name, he just lunged around Gendry (who stepped aside immediately) to grab for his wife and haul her over his shoulder. She screeched in objection.

 

“This is not _proper_! You are—covered in sweat—and dirt! _JON!_ ” Her protests were lost to the wind as he spun them, snickering all the while. Gendry turned, catching Arya’s laughter in the air, to see her doubled over in mirth at her sister’s expense. He thought idly that Cersei Lannister would have had her husband hanged if he treated her so, and that Daenerys Targaryen certainly wouldn’t have tolerated such a public display. But Queen Sansa’s happy peals of laughter rang out through the courtyard, and everywhere Gendry looked he saw the knowing smiles and approving whispers of the household. He’d heard the maids and the women in town sigh over King Jon and how he so obviously loved his wife. One handmaiden said that they’d not slept a night apart since their wedding, that whenever the queen rode out, the king went with her. And if the king rode to a keep, the queen accompanied him. Gendry thought that their lightheartedness was infectious, that it was infecting him with something that resembled hope.

 

And so, it seemed, it was with Arya. Her face was bright and open, and ever so fond as she watched her brother and sister in their play. She looked younger than he’d ever seen her, happier than he’d ever seen her. And when she caught his gaze, it didn’t fade. It didn’t diminish in the least. In fact, it deepened. Her smile was impossibly wide, her throat tight with feeling that he wanted to drench himself in. He was so caught up in staring at her that he didn’t even realize that he’d started walking until he was nearly in front of her. She reached up for him as they collided, his hands steadying her at her waist, and he kissed her, thoroughly and deeply because he wanted to drink down whatever high she was riding.

 

So much for rumors.

 

*

 

As the whole of the castle took notice of the young couple in the courtyard, Jon had swung Sansa around so that she was riding comfortably on his back. They trudged back to the Great Hall where Maeor and Brienne were waiting for them to hear petitions. The guards and the servants greeted them as they passed, but weren't overly surprised by their indecorous behavior. Wolves at play wasn't so uncommon a sight at Winterfell. With a happy sigh, Sansa sunk her nose into the side of his neck. She kept her arms braced around his chest so she didn't choke him, and he gripped the bulk of her skirts so they didn’t drag.

 

“Tormund should be arriving within the week,” he informed her idly, though she already knew as much. He was coming for seed that they had bargained for with farmers in the Reach. Sansa had offered to send a party to the Gift, but Tormund insisted on coming himself, since she had gone to all the trouble of securing it for them. Privately, she thought the Free Folk chieftain missed Jon’s company and wanted a go at the White Harbor ale they kept in the stores.

 

“Oh, he is going to be so disappointed,” she pouted exaggeratedly, “He was hoping Arya would snatch up one of his sons.” This information made Jon laugh and sneer at the same time.

 

“ _Hell_ no,” he shot back, hefting her up higher on his back. His virulence made her chuckle; evidently he’d seen far too much of the Giantsbane boys, and either he didn’t trust them with his little sister, or he thought his little sister would murder them. Neither was ideal.

 

“Speaking of marriages, you need to send Cledger Cerwyn and the Manderly girl a wedding gift.”

 

“Cledger? The one with the crooked nose and the overbite who cannot manage a proper sentence?” She giggled. When had he become so observant of trivialities? “They’re marrying that ugly brute to that pretty slip of a lass?”

 

She snorted, “In a moon’s turn.”

 

“We don’t have to attend, do we?”

 

“No, but you do have to send a gift. A _nice_ gift.”

 

“How about one of those silk ropes you like so much?” he leered over his shoulder at her, making her slap his chest. He tipped his head forward to laugh.

 

“ _Not_ appropriate!” she snipped, trying very, very hard to keep the laughter out of her voice. But she _did_ like that rope, and now she had every intention of gagging him with it when next they were abed.

 

“You’re riding me like a palfrey, so I’d say nothing about this is your definition of appropriate.” She blushed. That was definitely true, but she also had flashbacks of when she had… _ridden him like her palfrey_ and gods, she was so overheated now. She tightened her legs around him.

 

“Horses don’t talk so much,” she grumbled, lowering her head to nuzzle into his neck. The scene was already completely undignified, so it hardly mattered what she did at this point. Besides, he was warm and she was feeling puny given her condition, and moreover, they’d not had a night together in nearly a week because their duties had them working into the late hours of the night. _That_ needed to change.

 

"So, did you convince Gendry not to take my head?" he asked lowly as they went along, changing the tone of the conversation. Sansa had recognized Gendry’s standoffishness with Jon from the beginning. He declined invitations to meals, was overformal and curt with him. And the glaring had gotten wildly out of hand. In the poor blacksmith’s defense, he was probably just thinking overhard instead of wishing the king ill, but the whole thing was rather ridiculous. Sansa hadn’t wanted to upset Arya with it, so she spoke to Jon. At first, he looked at her like she’d lost her mind, the idea of Jon and Arya having an affair was rather absurd, but he came around. Hadn’t _he_ been stupidly jealous in the beginning? (He was still jealous and territorial, but then the men at Winterfell had quickly learned to give Sansa wide berth if they valued their respective appendages undamaged.)

 

Unfortunately, there really wasn’t much to be done about it. Jon was hardly going to avoid Arya to appease anyone, let alone a man, and he certainly wasn’t aware enough to recognize what might set Gendry off. Sure, Sansa could have made recommendations, but to what end? Would he honestly ensure to keep a few feet of distance between them? To not touch her or drop brotherly kisses to her head? Would he smile and laugh less? Would he make her smile and laugh less? No, he wouldn’t even try. So, Sansa had promised to speak to Gendry about it. She bit out a laugh and shrugged.

 

"A start. He's keen."

 

"Good. Otherwise our sister would rip him to shreds and we'd have to start all over again." Sansa simply hummed, reveling in the way his torso reverberated with laughter. She wondered if the babe could feel it too, if their babe felt safe nestled between them. Three turns since their wedding, and she'd yet to tell him. Gilly had guessed, since she had spent all of her life around pregnant women. They decided not to tell Sam as Gilly would be infinitely more useful than the shy, squeamish maester. However, her companion was convinced it was a good time to tell Jon. Daenerys had announced her pregnancy the fortnight before and the whole kingdom had celebrated. Sansa wasn't sure she wanted all of that attention again so soon, but the news would greatly please her sister queen. Gilly was showing already, only a turn or two from when she should deliver. Their child would never lack for company.

 

As they approached the Hall, she tapped on his chest for him to put her down. He obliged, helping her situate her clothing and straighten the wisps of hair which had escaped her braid. He was so fixated on his task that he didn't notice her watching him, anticipating and nervous.

 

"Jon," she said gently, dropping a hand to his. He only hummed, adjusting her cloak to lie flat across her shoulders. "I have something to tell you." His eyes flicked to hers, brow arched, as he untwisted a strap. She chuckled softly at his non-response, and took his hands firmly in hers, effectively pulling them away from her clothes. Finding her throat too thick with emotion, Sansa answered his silent query by bringing his hands to the newly taut sides of her belly. She flattened his hands there, sure to keep his gaze, and covered them with her own. Jon's eyes immediately dropped to their hands, hiding his face from her, making her bite her lip anxiously. Absurd to be so nervous, still there she was. But then he raised his head. Mouth slightly agape, eyes wide and shining. He looked completely wrecked.

 

"You're certain?" he nearly begged her, his whisper harsh and raspy. Sansa let out the breath she was holding and nodded. Jon crumpled. His hands immediately clasped her face, kissing her over and over, so unfettered in his joy, with tears on his cheeks. Sansa accepted his fervor, bolstering him up as her own tears slipped.

 

" _Gods,_ I love you so much," he mumbled, making her preen, warming her to the tips of her toes. "How long have you known?" She pressed her forehead to his, winding her arms around his neck, and pushed against his solid form.

 

"Since the wedding," she admitted hesitantly with a weak smile. He startled, frowning as he attempted to figure the time constraints. She bit out a laugh. "It— Trust me, I had a reliable source. Your son—"

 

"Or daughter," he interrupted. Seven hells, she almost starting crying again.

 

"Was made before the gods. _Our babe,_ Jon."

 

"Who else knows?"

 

"Just Gilly. She figured it out when I missed my first cycle and couldn't keep down my porridge." His laugh was more of a gasp and he had to sniff to compose himself. "You're happy?" she asked uncertainly. "In true? It is rather soon..."

 

"Am I—?" He broke off with a scoff and a sharp shake of his head. She could tell he was thinking about every time she'd been on a horse, or had ridden out with him to one of their holds. He laughed, desperately, and kissed her, elatedly, with a childish enthusiasm. And then he dropped to his knees in front of her, his hands cupping the swell of her belly and forehead pressed in the space between his hands. Sansa dropped her hands to his head, fingers stroking the lines of his bound curls. 

 

"Heir to the Iron Throne," she whispered when he pressed kisses there. He glanced up at her, hands still protectively covering her.

 

"Our child _first."_ His voice was hard and resolute. He was absolutely determined to give her the life they wanted, the life _she_ wanted. Maybe because he loved her, maybe as recompense for all she had suffered. Maybe because he knew what it meant to carry adult burdens on little shoulders. Her anxieties were somewhat lessened by Dany’s promise, that she could keep her son until he was age; that he would be her son first and Dany’s heir second. She hadn’t discussed this with Jon either, and perhaps she should. But for that moment, she wanted his focus on her, on their babe, on all that lie between them. Sansa smiled, the warmth boiling up and threatening to spill over.

 

"Our child first," she agreed gently. He pressed his forehead back against her belly.

 

*

 

Tormund was upset when he found Arya betrothed to Gendry. But his mood quickly swung around when he heard Jon’s news. He was ecstatic to learn that Sansa was with child. He swept her off her feet and a smacked a loud kiss to her cheek. Instead of being offended, the Stark house was thoroughly amused by his uncouth exuberance. He promised to make an axe as a gift for the babe. When Sansa asked what he would make if the babe were a girl, he looked confused.

 

“A bigger axe,” he answered shortly.

 

“You are incorrigible, Tormund,” she laughed.

 

He frowned, “I don’t know what that means. But if it’s a fancy word for brilliant, then yes, yes I am.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
